


game over.

by eoghainy



Category: ArcheAge, Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, Fallout 4, Grand Theft Auto IV, Saints Row, Shall We Date?: Destiny Ninja, The Elder Scrolls - Fandom
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gore, video game drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-08-30 00:09:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 36
Words: 54,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8511253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eoghainy/pseuds/eoghainy
Summary: collection of drabbles from both popular & unpopular video games !





	1. rekindling

Gazing at her, his  _mother_ , there was difficulty in believing that she had finally found him. How many years had he spent, holed up in his office, staring at a torn and frayed photo of his family. His smiling mother; her hair red and untamed, sliding to her shoulders in ringlets. Amber eyes bright with love as she stared down at her tiny son, so tiny and frail. An arm was wrapped around her; belonging to his own father. Dark hair was swept across his forehead; glasses hiding those bright blue eyes he had come to know so well. He had gazed at this photo for so long, so many times in a row, that he had come to commit the very thing to memory.

So when he stood, awkwardly facing his mother, he found that the photo had not done her justice at all. Her time in the Commonwealth had harshened her previously soft features; a bruise kept her left eye black, whilst a fresh, pink scar stretched over her cheekbone, all the way to her eyebrow. Another clean scar ripped her smooth skin on the side of her neck. Her lips were not pulled into a smile, but torn down in a disgusted frown. She stared at him like a person stared at a bug; hateful. Disgusted. Horrified. Dirt smudged her unblemished skin, as did multiple, tiny lacerations that she had come to receive from her battle with the Super Mutants. 

Oh, yes; he had been watching her for a long time. Watching his mother tear her way through the Commonwealth to find her son had been hard. He longed to shed his title of Father, and go to her; curl his tall, fragile body up in her strong arms, and sob about how he had missed her. Yet he stayed away, leaving clues for her to follow. Did she really think that it would be that easy to get a Courser Chip from one of  _his_ Courser's?  _Please_. 

Never did he think that she would actually find a way to get inside the Institute. Once, he had even prayed that she would fail; that she would run into a wall, and give up. It was this very reunion that he had been dreading. He wanted her to have never come for him; to live out her life in the Commonwealth, meet a man that she could love, and forget about him. Though it was a very selfish thought, and he hated himself for even thinking it, he couldn't help it. 

Yet his mother continuously stared at him as he explained the Human Synths to her; carefully reprimanding himself every time he saw that he was losing her. His intelligence outranked hers; it was clear. Even though she struggled to keep up, she gave him the chance to speak rather than killing him on the spot like he had predicted she would. This was good; this would make it easier on him!

Words became lodged in his throat as he hesitated, knowing that his words did nothing to ease the maternal wounds that she bore. As he continued to ramble on about how he was a Father to those Synth's, as much as she was a mother to Shaun, his voice broke upon his own name. Never before had he referred to himself in the third person; the very word tasted dry and bitter. A part of him longed to scream; to just spill out all of the pain that he had been carrying all these years, but she was not ready for that.

Her mind was quick, seeing a show a faint sense of realization had already begun to dawn upon her freckled features. Though she did faintly wince in pain, due to the crinkling of her black eye, she stared at him as if she were really  _seeing_ him for the first time. "No..." 

That voice, the one that brought back memories of  _her_  made him close his eyes. She knew. She needed to hear the words still, but she  _knew_.

"Yes. I am your son ... I am Shaun."


	2. i lived for you

Standing on the roof of the C.I.T. building was nothing short of disappointing. Sharp, dark eyes were scanning amongst the ruins of the Commonwealth, feeling disappointment rising within him. This was worse than he had expected; he had wanted to believe that people on the surface were making a change, and making it so that the Commonwealth could be  _better_ , but there was nothing. No one cared; no one wanted to make a change; no one  _wanted_ the Institute to make a change for the living.

A withered hand moved to scrub the pads of his fingers across his face; eyes tightly closing. He was exhausted; the few cancer treatments that he had been permitting to be used on him really took a toll. His days were wearing thin; soon, he would be bedridden, unable to lead the Institute. Or, do anything really. There were a few things that needed to be taken care of before he did. Such as he still needed to find a leader for the Institute!

With a bright blue flash of light, and a sudden crack, his mother appeared behind him. She looked exhausted; the battle at  _Bunker Hill_ must have taken a lot out of her. Her face was pinched with stress, and she could hardly meet his gaze.

He assumed that he looked far from happy.

"Care to tell me what happened with the Synth's at Bunker Hill?" Though his voice was controlled, rage was seeping through. The objective of the mission was to bring the lost Synth's back; make sure that they were there to keep them under control. Yet, news came that there was no sign of the Synth's; they were  _gone!_  This had to do with his mother.

"We were ambushed." Her words sounded as if they were rehearsed. "The Brotherhood of Steel showed up; they, combined with the Railroad, made the rescue difficult." 

"Do you understand how ridiculous you sound?" Shaun snapped. "You are hardly credible these days. Do you see how I can't trust you? I assume that you let those Synth's go."

"They were afraid!" She burst out, her gaze glimmering with intensity. "They were real people, and they were  _afraid_."

Shaun lost it. "They were far from afraid!" He yelled, his voice cracking. "They are programed to feel things like this; don't you understand that? I can't believe you could be so stupid. You are far from an asset to the Institute. You're a liability. I love you, as my parent, but I cannot afford to keep you around here."

His mothers gaze narrowed dangerously. " _I_ am the parent, Shaun. You aren't. I have been alive longer than you have, and you know what? You have no  _idea_ what is going on out here. You have been underground all of your life. They deserve to have some control over their own lives, don't they?"

 _This was it_ , he realized. This was where he was going to have to let his mother go. Shaun's gaze narrowed icily; harsh words spilling from his tongue. "I don't need you to be my parent anymore. You are destroying what I had built for the Institute; it is high time that you leave. You are not permitted to enter the Institute, or get involved in Institute business again. I had high hopes for you, Mother. But you have disappointed me, as has this Commonwealth. Goodbye, Mother."

Another flash of blue light, and a sharp crack sounded before Shaun was gone. 


	3. adjustments.

“So this is what it’s supposed to be like?” Kellogg asked, stretching his tingling fingertips. Dull, yellow hues examined the scientist before him, and he frowned. “I don’t feel anything.”

“You will soon,” she cautioned. “You won’t be so .. Y’know, _you_ , for long.” She let her hands fall to her sides. “Take a look at yourself.” She invited, and Kellogg didn’t know if she was being serious or not.

Suspiciously staring at her, he lurched to his feet, finding that his hand had to shoot out and grasp the steel table beside him. She made a noise that resembled a chuckle, and Kellogg hissed, taking a moment to find his balance before striding towards the pristine mirror. 

He had asked those at the Institute to change him into the most unstoppable creature; a Synth. One false hand moved to touch his cheek, a sick grin spreading across his features. He didn’t have that Godawful scar anymore, nor any of the blemishes he had come to grow up with. No, he looked _normal_ , all except for those narrowed, piss-yellow eyes. 

 _Good._ He didn’t want to pass as human. 

Joints cracked as Kellogg stretched his new body out, aware that it was only his subconscious that had entered this false body. It was going to take some getting used to, but he knew that this was what he was meant to be. Especially with that bitch he had to kill!

“This will do _just_ fine.”


	4. alone.

When he awoke, he was alone.

No, not in that ‘ _I-have-no-friends-around-me-and-I-need-justification’_ type of alone; he was truly, and utterly alone. 

Both of his parents were dead; gone and never to come back. Being an only child had its qualms; he had no siblings to rely on, or to lean on. He was a damn good thief, but it had gotten him _nowhere_. Wealth had gotten him nowhere! He hated it. He hated having money at his fingertips, and being the one that everyone came to when they needed an extra buck in their pocket. 

His wife hated him. She cheated, and she cheated, and she dug sharp barbs at him whenever she got the chance. His daughter sought attention from awful television producers to validate herself, and she despised him whenever he tried to save her. His son was a lazy, selfish pothead, and he hated Michael for every single decision that he had made. His family was self-entitled, greedy, selfish and harsh; they blamed him for every single goddamned thing that went wrong.

To top it all off, his only friend was someone whom he had left behind. Michael was running with the wrong crowds all over again; doing stunts that made his blood sing, but ultimately pushed his family away. 

Here he sat, with his splitting head in his hands, praying that Jimmy drugging him was just a dream. Wasn’t him attacking Fabien a dream, too?

Running his hands through his hair, the underwear-clad thief had to realize that he had reached his breaking point. He lost his family, his car, _most_ of his damn bank account, and he was coming down from the worst high he had ever experienced in his damn life. 

Life was so wonderful for Michael fucking Townley, yeah?


	5. pyre.

“Oh, Maker!”

Alistair cried, and immediately, Lialya turned to face him. 

She had been distracted by the beautiful view from the top of Ostagar, specifically upon the bridge that led to the tower of Ishal. Albeit the land being tainted by so much death, and the fact that bodies still littered the snow, it still retained its simple, snowy beauty. The peaks and rises below seemed to stretch endlessly, and the snow covering them sent a bitter chill up her spine. The white substance could be so beautiful, especially once the sun hit it correctly. But from experience, she knew how cold and deadly winters could get. Fighting Darkspawn with the cold winds and the relentless sleet would be hard—she could only pray that their Blight was over before the snows spread across Ferelden and hindered the rushed work. 

“What is it?” The Dalish hurried to his side, her calloused hands gracing against his armored shoulders. He had collapsed onto his knees, hands braced against the rough stones, body heaving as he retched. His arms trembled as they struggled to hold him up. Vile yellow liquid dripped steadily from his lips, and all he could stand to do was stare bleakly at what lay ahead. 

Forcing herself to turn towards what Alistair was both horrified and sickened by, Lialya could feel her own horror mixed with grief rising inside of her. What stood before them was a perch, with two lopsided golden wings stretching out from the stand. There were spikes and staves driven into the hard wood base, keeping a fragile, fleshy body pinned to the frame. His hips and chest sagged away from the wood. But there was no mistaking the golden hair, or the broad, strong frame. Their long search through Ostagar had come to an end; they had found their fallen king. 

“They mutilated him,” Alistair‘s voice cracked in horror, and his tone sounded thick. “Look at him! Closer!”

Bile rose in her own throat as she did as she was told, booted feet carrying her forward. 

Alistair was right. The Darkspawn hadn‘t just killed Cailan; they had ripped him apart. From his hips up to his shoulders were black-and-blue bruises. His bones were twisted grotesquely through his skin, some even going as far as to split through the thinner portions of his flesh; mostly around his elbows and his knees. Picked-over bones stuck out from his hips, and a few jutted out from his chest. One or two of the bones still had flecks of rotted flesh stuck to them, and it briefly reminded her of discarded pork ribs. Crows had been picking at him. She could see beak marks marring his fair skin.

On his head, however, lay a crown of what appeared to be thorns. Curious, Lialya took another cautious step forward for a closer look, biting back bile upon seeing the sharp shards of metal woven into the branches. They dug into Cailan‘s skull, leaving dried blood crusted where the wounds were. She sucked in a sharp breath when she saw his eyes; eyes that had once shown so brightly with excitement. All the blood vessels in them had popped, leaving them bloodshot and glassy. One eye was half-open. There was no sign of fear in his dark, cyan hues; only contentment. How has he managed to stay content in the face of death? Hadn‘t he been afraid of what would be done to him in the afterlife? 

Cailan‘s open mouth revealed blood-stained teeth, and upon even closer inspection, she could see that his tongue was missing. His lips were cracked, and the bottom one was split. Three teeth were missing from his top row, and six from his bottom. Deep, riveted scratches lined the column of his neck, down to his collarbones. His head hung limply, chin brushing his chest with each gust of wind. His hair was tattered and greasy, lacking its usual shine. He was too quiet. There should be air flowing through his lungs, and blood pumping through his body. Lialya hadn‘t known him long, but she had quickly grown used to his loud, boisterous nature. He had been a comfort, amongst all this darkness. Now he served as a twisted reminder of how cruel the Darkspawn could be, even after death. 

However, that was not the extent to his mutilation. His abdomen had been carelessly carved open, leaving a gaping, dark wound. Lialya could see maggots writhing around in the organs that remained, and disgust rose inside of her. Out of the corner of her gaze, she could see a red mound resting a few inches away from where she stood. Turning towards it, she spotted his entrails, neatly coiled into a ring. Blood had stained the stones underneath. Fly’s buzzed around his rotting intestines, and the stench of burnt and rotting flesh lay heavy in the air. Cailan lacked his underclothes and his trademark golden armor, leaving him laid bare to the sun and whatever animals came for him. 

Shuddering, Lialya couldn‘t tear her gaze away from another wound that stretched from his hip across to his opposite thigh, taking everything in between. He didn‘t deserve to be left like this. It was wrong; he was receiving none of the respect a king deserved!

Forcing herself to look away, she was reminded of Tamlen. Her Dalish companion had been so idiotic to go forth and touch the mirror. Duncan had to have been right; he must of simply died from the sickness, and the Darkspawn would have left him alone. Or, so she hoped. 

Trailing her way over Alistair, and bending down beside him, she soothingly ran her fingers through his tufted up hair. How did she even begin organizing a funeral for a king, for one like _Cailan_? It would be virtually impossible.

“We need to build a pyre for him,” she murmured, gently placing her hand back upon his shoulder. He looked up at her with grief-stricken eyes, and she understood. He couldn’t do this. “He must be burned. All of him.”

“I can‘t bear to see it, I can’t . . . I can’t see it.”

Lialya was glad that she was the only one who had gone up close. Morrigan and Sten had the sense to keep their mouths shut whilst she had investigated, and to let Alistair grieve on his own. Still, she was surprised Morrigan had managed to refrain from lashing out at Alistair whilst he mourned. 

“I understand,” she whispered. “We’ll burn him, and then we can take his ashes back to Anora.” He stiffened at her words, but she carried on. “We’ll take some ashes for you, too. Just stay here, okay? Let’s get you away from the vomit.” Together, they moved away. She ended up leaving him turned away from the rest of the group, his back against one of the ledges, head tucked between his knees in case he had the urge to hurl again.

Moving towards their exhausted group, the young Warden began giving orders, her voice low. “Sten, Zevran, can you take Cailan down? Morrigan, Leliana; I‘ll need you to start building a pyre, too. I’ll be over to help in a moment.” She could hear Alistair mumbling behind her, and she had the strong urge to check on him again. 

“He was my brother,” Alistair was whispering, his tone weighed with exhaustion. His voice grew louder as she drew closer. “After my mother died, and Maric died, he was all I had before I was sent away to the Chantry. Even then, we shared letters and he came to visit me. He was my _family_.”

“You have us now,” Lialya reminded, painfully aware that it was far from a comfort. Alistair and Zevran were constantly at each others throats, and Morrigan refused to get along with her fellow Warden. Lialya herself still missed her own family, and her Clan; it was always a steady ache in her heart, each time she thought of them. They had to be far away now, escaping the Blight before it could reach them.

“I want to bring him home. _Home_ , home.” Alistair blinked at her. “He deserves a proper funeral at the castle, with Anora by his side.”

“We can’t bring him home,” she started. “Not . . . Not in his state. The trip would be too long, and each time we made camp, we would hold the risk of attracting wild animals, or even Darkspawn whilst we sleep. He would begin to bloat before we even got there, and Anora shouldn’t see it. She shouldn’t see _him_ like this.” She shut her eyes tightly. “It will be safer to burn him here.”

Alistair didn’t seem to have heard her. “He was my family . . .” He repeated bleakly, his gaze fixated on something she could not see. She wasnt even sure if he had even heard her. Alistair didn’t react when she touched her lips to his forehead and pulled away. Lialya began mentally preparing herself to begin helping Cailan down.

Her heart twisted as Sten and Zevran pulled the stakes keeping Cailan pinned. His skin squelched with each time they removed one, and thick blood sloshed onto the ground. Something rattled inside of him with each movement.

“What will we put him on?” Sten asked, not looking at her. His face was empty. He felt no emotion for what they were going to be doing that night. Cailan was not his king. 

Thinking quickly, Lialya moved to grasp a board that been abandoned to the left of Cailan’s stand. It was long enough, and hopefully strong enough to withhold the weight of his body whilst they could dutifully haul him to the pyre Morrigan and Leliana were building. She could hear the wood being clanked together as both women put the pyre together. Uneasy silence blanketed the bridge. Together, the three worked Cailan down; two of them pulling the staves that bound him and one of them holding his body up so he didn’t slump. They worked in turns, using Sten’s height to their advantage to get the ones that were higher up.

Before long, a pile of stakes were set beside them, blood glistening on each tip. Lialya could see splinters still dug into his skin, and though she had the temptation to pull them out, she resisted. It wouldn’t matter once they burned him. Between Sten and Zevran, they managed to awkwardly maneuver Cailan’s rigid body onto their makeshift slab. Her heart twisted at the sight of his limp body. 

Making up her mind, she pulled off her coat, the winter gales immediately making her cold. She ignored it, instead choosing to drape her coat over Cailan’s torso. He didn’t deserve to be exposed as such. 

“I do not understand how you treat a king that is not your own with such respect.” Sten spoke again, and Lialya’s ear twitched. 

“I met him, and I found that I respected him. That is all that is really to it.” She chose her words carefully. “He was a fine man, one that deserved respect; even from a Dalish.” 

Zevran seemed to agree. “I did not know him, but he looks proud. True royalty. Those deserving to rule in Antiva looked as such.” 

“That’s why we cannot burn him with this on his head. It’s mocking him.” Shards pricked her fingers as she grasped the crown firmly, and she tugged sharply, inhaling once the crown peeled away. Flesh and hair came with it, clinging to the shards, leaving a part of his skull bare, and his temples raw. Her own fresh blood dotted his skin, and his mocking crown. Lialya hadn’t even felt the pain the shards caused. 

Disgusted, she tossed the crown over the side of the bridge. “Bring him to the pyre; don’t burn him just yet—I want Alistair to be there to see it, just for closure.”

Sten narrowed his eyes at her, yet Zevran dipped his head. He understood. Waiting until they had reached the rise on the opposite side, Lialya turned back to Alistair. 

He was already on his feet, looking at her blankly. “Is it time?” He asked, his tone rasping.

“Yes. We can go slow if you wish?”

They slid their arms together, their hands intertwined, both moving at a slow, somber pace towards the pyre Leliana and Morrigan had built. When they had arrived, Cailan’s body had already been set in the middle of the wood. Someone had arranged her coat so that it was covering his entire torso now, not just his waist. It covered all of his gaping wounds. His hands were folded on top of his abdomen, fingers interlocked. Someone, Leliana most likely, had closed his eyes and washed the blood off of his face. His hair was slicked back, and his mouth was shut. Cailan looked peaceful, lying amongst the stripped bark; not at all like he had been mutilated. 

With a carefully timed, abnormally small firebomb, Morrigan lit the pyre. It blazed to life immediately, and Alistair groaned mournfully. During their walk, albeit, he had managed to recover himself. 

“Cailan was a proud man,” he began, and Lialya shot Morrigan a nasty look when she rudely coughed to interrupt him. “He was a fine ruler; too young to lay here, burning. May he find peace with the Maker, always have a full belly, be warm, and feel no suffering. Tonight, we honor him by sitting in front of the flames, and taking home his ashes.”


	6. fleeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love teagan so much ,,

Going sword - to - sword with the Bann was quite the challenge; one that Mysaki was indeed up for. Her heart ached each time their blades clashed. The moment she had stepped into the castle dining hall and had seen him, she had known something was wrong. His body was contorting in odd ways, and the way his limbs jerked allotted her to believe that the creature inside of the young boy, Connor, had reached out to the Bann; capturing him in its steely grip. His voice had been unnaturally loud, and his words forced. This was not the calm and collected man whom had worried about the safety of all his people that she had met in the Chantry, this was someone else entirely. 

Cyan hues glimmered with rage as they met her own, and Mysaki was shocked by the intense hatred she felt radiating from him. Just the day prior, they had been flirting; closing the distance between their bodies as they conversed. He had seemed so interested in her, and she had reveled in the way his gaze flickered across her lean, battle - hardened body. Teagan hadn‘t been hard on the eyes, either. She couldn‘t deny her own interest in him, but now she feared that she would have to strike him down to end his suffering. 

“Teagan,” she begged, locking the muscles in her legs so that he couldn‘t unbalance her with the force of his sword. They were parred evenly in the middle, their blades crossed; the metal making awful screeches. “Come back to your senses! Don‘t make me hurt you!”

His only response was an enraged growl. 

“Forgive me, Teagan.” Mysaki hardened herself, knowing that she would be of little use if she tried persuading Teagen to snap out of it. She had long since blocked out the sounds of her companions fending themselves against the guards, knowing that they could defend themselves. Sooner or later, more likely sooner, they would need help. There were simply four of them, and at least eight guards. 

Unlocking her leg muscles, Mysaki pivoted back, whirling her sword away from Teagan‘s. He stumbled, unbalanced by her weight disappearing. Quickly, she cast it down towards one of the tables and withdrew her dagger, her sharp ears twisting back in a feral sense. She weaved in front of Teagan, watching as his gaze flicked nervously. She had picked up the weaving tactic in the Alienage; not only did it confuse enemies, but it gave the user a chance to discover weaknesses. Her dark hues darted to - and - fro across his body, eventually spotting a weakness in his left leg. The muscle sagged and twitched, and if she were to strike it, the blow would not kill him. He would simply collapse, and be incapacitated for a moment. Nothing too dangerous, he wouldn‘t even bleed out. 

“You sneaky little mongrel!” Teagan spat, picking up on what she was doing. He moved to defend his weak point, but she was faster. Mysaki started to the right, then darted back to the left, digging her dagger right into the portion of the muscle that looked the weakest. His pants had already been torn by presumably one of the deceased they battled earlier, leaving his flesh bare. His skin split easily by her blade, and the cut she made was shallow; it would heal quickly, and leave no scar. 

Teagan was faster than she had anticipated. When the cool metal blade first touched his skin, he had gasped, and then buckled as his leg gave way. But his blade dug deep into her hip, and she cried out, hardly breathing as she turned to examine the wound. 

Hot blood was already inching down her leg, and agony spread through her hip. The skin already looked inflamed and red, the amount of blood suggested that this one would be a bitch to heal. If he had been on his feet, he could have easily gutted her. Rage temporarily blinded her, and she slammed the hilt of her sword down upon the crown of his head, watching as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Blood leaked from the split in his skull, and dripped down his face. Teagan’s body lost strength as he slumped, knocked out; sword clattering loudly upon the cobblestone. 

“Back to back!” Alistair was yelling, and Mysaki stumbled towards their group. Her shoulders brushed his and Zevran’s as they closed in on each other, tightly closing ranks. Leliana was directly behind her, Mysaki could hear her panting with pain. “Stay close; don’t let them separate us!”

“There’s seven of them left!” Zevran growled. “Let us end this tedious work quickly.”

Next to her, Alistair lashed out, his swords neatly clanking as they sliced off the guards head. Zevran already had his sword embedded in a guards stomach, all the way up to the hilt. Leliana was slashing at two at once; despite her pain, she was moving freely. Mysaki, blocking out the agony in her hip, skillfully jammed her sword into the ribcage of one guard, and slashed at another, cleanly slicing through his abdomen. 

“Ah, fuck it!” Zevran broke rank. 

“What are you doing?” Mysaki yelled, fending off another guard. Her momentary distraction caused for his blade to slip dangerously close to the hilt of hers. 

“Finishing this once and for all, my dear Warden!” He yelled back, and slid into one of the most elaborate splits she had ever seen. All she could see was a flash of silver before the guard in front of her dropped. Another had joined the fray seconds before, blinded by the demon to attack them. He, too, fell; a blade protruding from his neck. 

Grimly, Mysaki turned towards where Connor disappeared. She had no comment for the assassin‘s performance. “Now we figure out what we do with the boy.”


	7. promises.

“Anora, are you sure?” His hands were grasping her hips, sliding up and down her torso, never once breaking eye contact with her. His wife looked very pleased with herself; her bright, cerulean hues were gleaming, and she couldn’t stop herself from carding her fingers through his long, thick hair. 

“I hesitated on telling you because of how unsure I was at first,” she murmured, “but now that I really know, and are _really_ sure, I knew you needed to know.” Her eyes were beginning to cloud with emotion, and she grinned. “We’ve been waiting so long for this, Cailan.”

“I know,” Cailan whispered, pressing his forehead to her abdomen. Just barely, he could feel the tell-tale bump of a baby beginning to grow. Already, he was beginning to revel in the idea of having a young child around especially so now that the entirety of the country were pressing for an heir. Even more so now that the Darkspawn threat was getting even worse, and the Grey Warden’s were beginning to get concerned. “I know that this is just the beginning for us; the answer to all the stress in our lives.”

His sweet wife looked worried. “A child being brought up in the midst of war is not good; remember how we were brought up? We despised each other up until a certain point.” Her gaze brightened with amusement. “And I am glad that it did, for I couldn’t imagine my life without you.” 

“Nor could I.” Rising, Cailan swept her into a tight hug, breathing in her comforting, familiar scent. “Let’s not tell your father. I feel as if he would only attempt to worm his way back into the grasp of the throne, if you did.” 

Anora seemed to agree with him. “I think our best bets will be to keep this to ourselves. after last time, I . . .”

A few years prior, early into their marriage, Cailan had and Anora had gotten pregnant. Within two weeks of Cailan knowing, she had lost it. No one truly knew what happened to her. One day, during a ceremony for one of their knight’s, she had collapsed on the stage with extreme abdominal pain. The healer had told Calian that any chance of her still being pregnant were incredibly slim. They knew within two weeks that she wasn’t; her spotting had been the sign that they had lost it.

“This time will be different.” Cailan promised. He stepped back from her, unable to keep his hands off of her. He was excited to finally become a father; he wasn’t going to be keen on rectifying Maric’s mistakes! “It will work out, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay but i have this theory that anora was pregnant when cailan was called off to ostagar & she ended up losing it soon after he died because of the stress of everything on her small shoulders. 
> 
> ,, i love her & cailan so much tb h.


	8. stones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk trying a da / aa crossover.

Slender, calloused fingers stroked through thick, blood-stained hair, waiting for Alistair to wake up. Sten stood rigidly beside them, his gaze flashing in annoyance, waiting. 

“When will he awaken?” His voice was very blunt. 

“Come time,” Lialya murmured. “His soul needs time to return to it‘s body. Be patient, Sten.” Her heart twisted. Had she been too late? Alistair still didn‘t stir, and his body remained ominously still. She would have wasted her ability for nothing, and lost the only love of her life. “Alistair has always been different, right? It will simply take a little longer than it did for everything else.” 

“He brought you back.” Sten sounded practical. “As soon as he put it on your skin, you popped up.”

“A dog ripped out my throat; he got to me moments after I died. It will simply take a little longer for him, for I had to kill everyone before I was able to stop for him. Like I said, it will simply take some time.” She had her own doubts about Alistair and how his revival would go, but it didn‘t matter. He would return! He _had_ to return!

All of them had been backed into a corner; all separate and fighting for their lives. Though Lialya‘s one leg was officially screwed to Hell, and blood seeped steadily from her wounds, she could not focus upon herself when he was still in so much danger. Alistair‘s entire head had been split open, and his brain splotched out upon the stones. His eyes were closed, and blood was stained all over his armor and his face. There were deep wounds crisscrossed across his chest. If he were to recover, he would be healing for a long time. 

“Come on, Alistair,” she whispered, lowering her lips to brush against his cold ear. “Let it bring you back; let it restore life to you.”

As if her words were some cue, his chest raised. It was a tiny motion, hardly noticeable, but it got her to move. 

“Sten!” She said sharply, hearing him grunt in response to her. “Give me the medkit!” Her one hand was extended, and she felt the small kit against her skin. The ability would only heal the wound that killed him; not the ones that would have, if the killing blow hadn‘t been dealt. “Get Wynne! Now, go fast!”

Pulling out the gauze, she pressed it firmly on the worst of the wounds on his chest, watching his face for any signs of life. She couldn‘t feel blood, nor could she feel his heartbeat; but he was beginning to revive. Albeit slowly, it was happening all the same. Applying more pressure, she closed her eyes, willing for his blood to flow. 

Alistair‘s nostrils flared, and air whistled through them. 

Very slowly, his fingers twitched, and his shoulders began to shift. His eyes flickered behind his lids, and his blood began to flow. Alistair was groaning, starting to write underneath her. 

“Stop, Alistair. Stay still; you‘ll need your energy to heal. _Stop_ writhing.” She moved one hand to card through his hair, worry choking her. If this didn‘t take, he would die. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the mark burning upon his skin, allowing its magic to take hold. “Let the magic work; let it heal your head!”

The part of his skull that had been missing was healing itself. The bone was stretching to meet the others and reconnect, whilst his brain was beginning to grow back. Both his skin and hair were covering the parts that were already finished, cautiously beginning to creep across the injuries that remained. His entire head was knitting itself back together, piece by piece, little by little. 

To her great delight, the wound she was covering was healing itself as well. His skin squelched and blood gurgled as fresh, unmarked flesh crawled across his ribs to cover the gaping wound in his chest. His heart beat very quickly, and he was not yet conscious, but he was _alive_. He was breathing raggedly, and his mouth was opened now; his eyes were screwed shut, and gradually, his body tensed. 

“Alistair, you must relax. Stop fighting the magic.” She pleased, reassured to find that his skull was back to normal. Her fingers met no empty space where the wound once was; the only way you‘d ever know was by the blood in his hair, and the brains mixed in with it. 

“Lia . . .lya?” He rasped, his eyes flickering open. “My tongue feels . . . Too big for my mouth.”

“That‘s normal,” she laughed, relief washing over her. “Very normal. Don‘t sit up; take it slow.” Lialya moved so that she could rest his head in her lap and keep her legs wound around his body. He was still cool to the touch, and he seemed stiff, but otherwise she knew that he was going to be _okay_. Alistair would not die here. “How do you feel?”

“Bruised; very battered, like I was kicked in the face many times by Sten,” he grunted, casting hazy hues onto her face. “You look pale.”

“You scared me.” She answered, carefully avoiding his question. 

“No, like you‘ve lost blood.” Alistair started to push himself to his feet, but collapsed back, panting, when she resisted, using her arms to slowly ease him back down. “Where is everyone else?”

“Leliana, Shale, Morrigan and Zevran went off deeper into the cavern. They‘re clearing the way for us, we _need_ that other stone or else we’ll have failed. Sten went to go get Wynne so she could heal you. Gamira . . . She didn‘t make it. Between an animal and you, I _had_ to choose you.” Lialya’s voice burned with intensity, and her throat remained choked. 

Alistair‘s eyes misted over. “She was a faithful dog, up until her last. Where is she?” 

“Wynne took her corpse to be buried. Gamira would only attract more of those things and cultists; we have to get back on the move, soon.” She touched the mark on his skin, relieved to see that it had faded completely. It was a small scar now, a blemish that only they knew existed. The magic finished fixing whatever it was going to. “Can you stand?”

Together, both managed to find their feet; Alistair leaning heavily on Lialya. Slowly, they moved; Alistair hardly having the strength to put one foot in front of the other. He was heavily favoring his left side, where he had been run through, and he wheezed with each step. She was worried; if he were truly back to being himself, he would have cracked a joke by now, right? Yet he remained somber, thinking about something she wasn‘t welcome to know. 

“We must being the stone back to the village, and end this entirely.” Strength flooded Alistair‘s voice, surprising her. “The cultists have to be stopped to save Nuia, and win our war.”

“Nuia and this war can wait! It almost killed you. I‘m just asking you to rest for a moment, get your strength back” Lialya guided him to a makeshift bench, and set him down. Crouching down in front of him, she pressed the back of her hand to his cool forehead. “You don‘t feel as if you have a fever, and you look focused; do you remember what happened?”

Alistair looked thoughtful, though she could see pain glimmering in his gaze. “I was blindsided,” he admitted. “One moment, I was fighting through the pain of having a sword in my chest, and the other . . . well, a spiked mace hit me as if I were a baseball and next thing I knew, I was on the floor with my brains spilling out. Now I‘m alive and my dog is dead and the king is going to be _very_ disappointed, and I don’t know what to say to make all of it better.”

To speak of the king, Alistair’s half-brother, Cailan, Lialya felt her heart twist. The war-hardened man was unhappy with the way he had been treated by his father-in-law, and with the way that his war was going. From what Alistair had told Lialya was that Loghain had betrayed Cailan; he had informed northern spies of when would be a good time to attack, and had driven Anora, Cailan, Alistair and Duncan away. Duncan never returned, though Cailan, Anora and Alistair took their castle back and disposed of the spies, and had Loghain hung. The southern half of Nuia had more reason to fight now, seeing as how far the northerners were going to kill Cailan.

Now, two years later, Cailan and Anora had two daughters; Lyvya and Rowan. The young princesses were a drive for Cailan to fight harder; to split Nuia completely in half. 

* * *

_“There cannot be two kings; one in the north, and one in the south. It doesn’t make much sense, does it?” Cailan pressed, staring hardly at Alistair. Both had been arguing for the past half an hour. “I have not asked you to get behind me on my war plans before, but I need an experienced warrior. I need someone doing what normal soldiers can’t.” The king narrowed his eyes at his younger brother. “You are my closest advisor, and my younger sibling; after what Loghain did, you are the only one I can trust with this.”_

_Alistair looked uneasy, his gaze darting around. “What would this job require? If it means that I have to start dancing in a pink slip drunk on mead in front of you during a private session, I will be inclined to refuse.”_

_Amusement flashed across Cailan’s features. For a moment, he didn’t look like the weathered king that had completely lost his innocence. Instead, he looked like a young man; you would not be able to tell what he had gone through during the time of his betrayal if he did not have this ugly, pink, rough scar that furled itself from his left eye and down through his cheek. Truly, the southern king was handsome, and once upon a time his personality was as well. War has hardened his heart, and betrayal had made him increasingly wary._

_“I promise, it does not require that. I know your Elven companion does not share our interests—“_

_“You’ve got that right,” Lialya glowered at Cailan. “This isn’t my war.” She had only been compelled to come due to her own curiosity of what Cailan was like. A part of her was let down. She had been expecting him to be much like Alistair; not like one of the leaders of their Tribe._

_“But you’re with my brother, which officially makes it yours.” Cailan flashed back, his voice inviting no more argument from her. “If we were to split Nuia in half, we can reduce the amount of time that it takes for soldiers to cross the lands. More often than not, they get attacked whilst in route, and our ranks thin each time we send expeditions out; it takes too long to train our budding young warriors, and we are utterly underfunded. Two kings are always stepping upon each others toes, and we are never in agreement. Wars we could handle on our own, if we were not bound by this stupid contract. If we split, our countries would truly thrive by standing alone. Besides, it was not me who started this war.”_

_Lialya narrowed her eyes. “No, it was your father.” Maric had the same ideas, and had put the idea of betrayal in Loghain’s head when his first son became king._

_“Exactly. Which means that I_ will _be following it through. I want my daughters to grow up in a better world than this one.” Striding around the table to face Alistair, Cailan looked sincere. “I am asking you, not as your king, but as your brother, to do this favor for me. Please, Alistair.”_

_Alistair and Lialya exchanged a look. She kept her expression blank. This was his decision to make, not hers._

_He swallowed hardly, his anxieties and fear washing away into clear resolve. “Okay . . . What do you need of me?”_

* * *

The memory passed through her mind at the mention of their king, and she hesitated with an answer. “We tell him the truth; we failed. We won’t be able to get the stone, not like this. There’s just too much to do, and we’ve already lost someone, and you almost died.” Grief made her tone thick. “I won’t risk you to finish what Cailan started.”

“We _have_ to get that stone!” Alistair protested. “If we don’t get it, Cailan will have nothing to fight the northerners back, and we _all_ will be hung; even his daughters. Do you want that?”

“No, I don’t. But I won’t risk you. Tell him to send others to get it; a more taskful force. We can put our talents to other good uses.” Lialya’s voice invited no more argument. “You already died, and so did I, trying to get things for Cailan. It’s over. The stones are a lost cause.”


	9. visits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmm but i love angst. 
> 
> during awakening, and after the way that the dalish warden & alistair route ends, i lowkey lost my cool and wrote this up.
> 
> yay, angst!

“And where is the Warden-Commander?” 

His voice is terse, emotion underlying those words. Lialya can hear him, even from her hiding spot. Yet, she refrains from going out to confront him; her hands clamped down over her mouth, and she tightly closes her eyes, fighting back the tears that threaten to stream down her cheeks. As much as she wanted to see him, as much as she wanted to _be_ with him, this was for the best. This _had_ to be for the best.

“I don’t . . . know.” Oghren sounded confused. “She was just here a moment ago.”

“How do you _not know_?” The King’s voice is sharp with worry, fear underlying his words 

“Don’t get your panties all in a twist,” Oghren snaps. “She couldn’t have gone far. I’m sure she’ll be back at some point; probably heard some Darkspawn scufflin’ around or somethin’ and decided to take care of it.”

Back during the time of the Blight, when they were both young and taking on the responsibilities of the world, they had only been too keen on entering in a relationship. Both had been so fascinated with each other; they would spend long nights inside of their tents, examining each others bodies and exploring what it meant for them to have a relationship. 

Sometimes, late at night, she could still feel his calloused fingers creeping along her shoulders and up her neck; gently gracing the nape of her neck to tilt her head back in order to bestow the kindest of kisses upon her lips. The very notion of how far her imagination would go to recreate what she had with Alistair was alarming.

In the end, when Loghain had struck the final blow upon the Archdemon, both she and Alistair had realized the same thing; Ferelden needed a King _and_ a Queen, not just one. That night, both exhausted and horrified after the battle, they had argued until the sun rose the next day. They had come to an agreement, albeit; Alistair could not run from his blood and his position any longer. He longed on the Throne, and he belonged with _Anora_ , not her. 

He had fought her on it, albeit; even though he _knew_ that she was right, he had fought her tooth and nail. Brokenly, she had sacrificed her own happiness for the good of her home. 

* * *

_“But, you can be Queen! We can get Anora off the Throne and marry together,” Alistair pressed, his tone high-pitched with stress and pain. “If we put our minds together, and we truly tried, we could do it.”_

_“Do you not understand?” Lialya flashed back, her gaze glimmering with fresh tears. “I_ can’t _be Queen, I’m a_ Dalish _! I am Dalish through and through; there is no trace of noble nor human blood in my veins. An outcast can’t be a Queen, Alistair. The people would riot and overthrow us within moments. It’s not safe for me, and it wouldn’t be safe for you. I can’t put you in danger like that.”_

 _“What about what I want?” Alistair’s voice is hard. He had truly grown up in the months that they had spent together; he no longer allowed anyone to push him around, or to tell him how things were. He wasn’t going to let this go so easily. “What about what_ I _want, Lialya? I don’t want to be King, I want to be with_ you _!”_

_“Well you can’t have me!” Lialya yelled, her voice cracking, and then breaking. “You can’t fucking have me anymore! You have a duty to Ferelden as Maric’s only living son.”_

_His dark eyes flashed with malice, grief glimmering in their depths. “I wish I had never been born to him.”_

_“Don’t say that,” she protested, but he cut her off._

_“I wish I didn’t have_ Theirin _blood running through my veins; I wish I had been born normal, and that this wasn’t a situation we were in, and I wish that this conversation wasn’t happening.” His voice was bitter, and he looked truly torn. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I can’t lose you, I_ won’t _lose you. Don’t make this happen.”_

 _Brushing her hands underneath her eyes, she wiped away her tears, slowly shaking her head. “It’s going to happen, Alistair. It has to happen. You_ will _marry Anora; you will be King of Ferelden, and everything will be fine. We will be over, though. We will be done. No more . . . us.”_

_“You’re breaking my heart,” he whispered, tears spilling over his waterlines. They ran clear tracks in the dirt, blood and grime that caked his face. His blood-stained hands ran through his messy hair, his eyes screwing tightly shut. “Is there any chance of changing your mind, or of an . . . ?”_

_The word was better left unsaid. What he was going to say was ‘affair’; he wanted to know that if there was any chance of them sneaking around, of hiding their relationship yet again. She knew, deep inside of her that it would cause more harm than good. She’d be desperate to see him, desperate to be with him everywhere but behind closed doors. It would only bring more harm for the both of them and nothing more. There was no chance that she would ever want to recreate the situation with Cailan and Alistair; she would_ never _wish that upon anyone involved. The answer had to be no._

_“I won’t have an affair with you, Alistair.”_

_The words are said firmly, and she’s shocked by her own resolve. Lialya would have expected herself to have bursted into tears; crying and clutching at anything to keep her grounded. A distant part of her wondered if all this was simply a dream, but then she’d be waking up in her bed—right beside Alistiar, hyperventilating and trying to determine whether or not she should tell him as to why she was breaking down. Yet, the reality of things and the burning agony inside of her told her what she feared was true; it was true. All of it was as true and real as anything else; as real as killing the Archdemon._

_“I will_ not _have an affair, nor will I be entertaining the idea of one. Do_ not _ask me again.” A harsh tone enters her voice, and Lialya regret it as soon as she watches his eyes grow wide with shock. “You will be faithful to Anora and Anora alone, Alistair.”_

_The glower that he gave her reminded Lialya of the childish nature he still managed to retain, even now. Even if she did think that he was fully hardened, ready to assume the burdens of the kingdom, she knew that he would always retain that childish ‘I-would-rather-pout-and-make-sharp-remarks-than-do-this’ mind set._

_It was something she would always love about him._

_“I can’t walk away from you.” Alistair’s voice was trembling. “I won’t.”_

_“I can.” Lialya’s voice was soft, yet it was hardened with her own resolve to do what was right. An icy numbness spread inside of her body, and her tongue felt too big for her mouth when she spoke. Words still dripped like venom from her tongue. “That’s what I’m going to do right now, before I can get sucked into another argument.” She strode forward, feeling her hands shake, pressing a gentle, chaste kiss to his dry lips._

_As soon as she was in the circle of his warmth again, Lialya knew it was a mistake. His arms were wrapped around her waist and hers around his neck, their foreheads touching and lips molded together. He reeked of blood and sweat, and even fear; yet he tasted of love, grief, and loss._

_One of her hands was fisted around his shirt, and the other in his hair. Alistair, on the other hand, had her backed up against the wall. It was hunger spurring them on; a desperation for one last good memory before she ended it all together. Lialya didn’t even know if she had the strength to peel herself away from him. Alistair was like a second skin; where she went, he went. They moved together and stuck together as one, forever and always._

_Albeit, as soon as Alistair’s tongue brushed against hers, Lialya found it within herself to slither out of his grasp and put distance between them. Her dirty face was flushed with color, and her lips stung like fury from the desperation between the two of them. They were beginning to bruise, and her battered body felt even worse than it did. Alistair’s hands roaming across her skin had always felt pleasant, but it only aggravated both new and old wounds in their calloused wake._

_“I’m sorry,” was all Lialya croaked, forcing herself to turn away and stalk right out the door._

* * *

“Lialya? _Lialya_! Warden-Commander!” Someone was yelling, and dully, Lialya registered that it was Anders. The mage was looking for her, his voice growing louder. 

Since she had begun reliving the memory, she hadn’t realized the change that had taken place. Now, she was sitting upon the ground, her knees pulled against her chest, face buried in her kneecaps. Her back was firm against the wall, and her watery azure gaze was watching the door across the way, praying to the Creator’s that no one opened it. 

“Warden-Commander, someone is here to see you!” A door opened nearby, and Lialya flinched, well aware that she only heard one set of footsteps. _Good_. Anders had come to search for her alone. 

The doorknob to the room she was in creaked, and the door creaked open. Anders poked his head in, his long hair free from its ponytail, spilling over his shoulder. His face immediately paled when he saw her, and she pressed a finger to her lips, silently begging that he kept his mouth shut. She barely knew the mage, yet he seemed kind-hearted; he would keep her secret. 

Anders nodded, understanding what she wanted, and he clicked the door shut with a fluent sweep. “ _Warden-Commander_!” He yelled, his voice holding a sing-song tone. “Where _aaaaaarrrrrreeeee_ you?” 

Relieved, Lialya leaned back against the structure behind her, aware of how she might look. Her face was flushed, and her eyes must be swollen from crying. She was hiccuping from her breakdown, and she found that her chest felt as if it was collapsing upon her lungs. A part of her wished that it was the case; it would be a welcome distraction from the swelling of her eyes, and the aches she felt all over her body. 

“You couldn’t find her?” She could hear Alistair’s voice, rising and falling with anxiety. “No sign of her?” 

“None.” Anders confirms, his tone serious. 

“She’s always been flighty,” Oghren muses, his tone gruff. “Just let her be.” 

“. . . I was hoping I would . . . never mind.” Alistair’s voice is broken, welling with disappointment. “Things are going well here, yes? Things will be getting back on track soon?” His tone was business-like now.

Lialya forced herself to calm down, taking steadying breaths. It seemed as if his visit was drawing to an end. 

“Oh, shut up, Alistair.” Oghren snorted, and even Lialya winces at the informality that the dwarf uses. “We all know how it ended. It’s no damn wonder she doesn’t wanna see your ass.” 

“Oghren,” Anders cautioned, his tone tight. 

“Keep yer’ mouth shut, Anders.” Oghren snaps. “If she took off, she took off because she can’t face you. You’re both fuckin’ stupid.” 

“I believe that we are.” Alistair answers this time, however, his tone distant. “. . . I will be taking my leave, now; give the Warden-Commander my regards.”

Listening to his all-too familiar footsteps clicking away made Lialya’s heart break even more.


	10. fire away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> king ! alistair & sad warden commander ?? ish ?? this is mostly a warden thing lmao.
> 
> also first person is kinda fun.

“My Warden,” he called, and I turned; fighting back a shudder that tried to ruin my almost perfectly composed appearance. My lover, whom I had not accepted lightly at first, reminded me far too heavily of a certain someone named Zevran. They had the same air of mystery, but he — the man whom I have now invested myself in — seemed dangerous. Zevran had been easily manipulated, putty in my hands as I worked him to his full potential; Thelven was unreadable, and almost primal. He scared me at times. His dark eyes were almost always carefully blank, and I presumed it was because of his life as a traveler. He must have seen some truly awful things during his life. A part of me felt for him. I understood what it was like to see horrible things unfolding before you without any strength to stop it. My travels as a Warden left me scarred. Sometimes I thought that I would never come back from some of the things I’ve witnessed.

But _why_  didn’t I trust myself around him? When I had been with Tamlen and Alistair, my guard had been down completely. I had trusted my instincts and my emotions completely. They encouraged everything that was good and pure to blossom within me, to show them my most vulnerable sides without any fear of judgement or pain. I could tell them anything, show them anything, and they’d respond in a lively manner. I could read them, I could predict them, I could sense what they would do, or how they would react.

Thelven made me second guess myself, and tear down all the carefully constructed walls I had spent so much time on. I could never get a read on what he was feeling, or what he had planned next, and it struck an uncomfortable amount of fear within me. I knew I was in trouble; I had isolated all of my friends, including Leliana, and began playing a game with the ever - unaware Alistair. My only reasoning behind going to this stupid party had been to make him jealous; to show him that I had not given my heart over to him solely, that I was capable of loving again. 

I hated myself and the game, but I had to play. My developing petty nature was driving me to hurt him, even though I had been the one whom had broken us up to begin with.

“Yes?” I asked, carefully keeping my gaze as blank as his. I never showed Thelven my emotions, not if I could help it. He frightened me and I couldn’t help but keep my guard up. It was exhausting. I don’t know how I managed it all the time. He could read me. I can feel it when my guard is down. All he needs is a quick glimpse of me and he already knows what I’m thinking, or what I’m planning. It made me even more unnerved to be around him.

“I just wanted to say that you look simply stunning,” his accent distorted his words. I had the sneaking suspicion that his kind words were forced. “You would certainly be turning heads tonight.”

Involuntarily, I flush. I was never the fancy type; even as a young girl, I always donned armor and hailed weapons as my favorite source of amusement. My mother - figure wanted me to be more feminine; to eventually follow in the Keeper’s footsteps and hold myself with such a regal pose, but I was only too happy to sneak away with Tamlen to learn to hunt, to fight, and follow in my father’s footsteps into an early grave. I didn’t mind. I preferred dirt and scrapes as opposed to chores and leading. My mother - figure always found it aggravating, but she loved me all the same. I still remembered the horror on her face when she realized that I had to leave, that chances were, I would never return to the Clan ever again. I still miss her. But, even whilst I was young, I felt most at ease with armor shielding me, and a weapon at my side then in fancy dresses. 

Tonight, albeit, I had no choice. I knew I was plain looking; I was more of an athletic marvel, not a beauty queen. To call me such would be an insult to those whom were holders of natural beauty. Mine was all forced. I was only too aware of how tomboyish I was as well: with my lean, hard body; narrow hips and shoulders; small chest; and rough, calloused skin donned with an assortment of scars. My body screamed to anyone who looked that I was a survivor of a rough life, who led one to make sure that those with soft bodies were able to live without knowing what I knew. To make me stick out even more, my ears were a constant, stark reminder of who I was. 

Who I _am_.

I did not look like the women who worked at the Pearl; they were all curvaceous, soft, and beautiful. Their hair was always well done, and their eyes always gleamed with falsified lust. Their chests would be enunciated, drawing attention to them. Lips puckered with red stains, long lashes batting, skin glowing. I found myself envying their easy, seemingly natural beauty. I could never achieve that in my life, not even if I tried. 

I had ended up forcing myself into a dress. It felt foreign and unnatural against my skin, and rubbed in all the wrong places; my new wounds were aggravated by the silky fabric, and I hated how I looked in it. The tight, silky fabric made my hips look rounder; fuller. My small chest looked nice and full in my breast binder; the soft, supple flesh spilling over the glimmering ridge of the dress. It made me look like a lie. I was not curvaceous. I did not have extra body fat to spare. I was a lean, strong warrior; borne of hardships and hard work. This dress led people to believe that I was soft, and underneath the fabric they would find a body that remained untouched. It was a _lie_.

The dress length fell down to the middle of my calves, and even though I knew this party was going to be safe, I still had a dagger strapped to my left thigh. I was glad that it didn’t show through the fabric, but I felt the cool metal burn against my skin, reminding me that it was there if I should suddenly need it. It felt abnormally wonderful. The dress style was colored a deep, Grey Warden blue; the hem and lace being bright gold. I had tight, black wedges on; I missed the feel of my comfortable leather boots. I was surprised that I was not stumbling all over the road. I had never been able to walk in heels without finding myself off - balance. 

My hair usually was tied up in a knot, or pulled back into a ponytail or braids; but tonight it was down, left to rest. My long, rib - length tri - colored locks hung loose — looking soft and silky for the first time in months. I actually enjoyed the way it looked. Leliana, reluctantly, had helped me wth my makeup. In my own opinion, I thought I looked ridiculous. My eyeliner seemed too dark, my eyeshadow too vidid, my lips too red; I hated it. Thelven seemed to enjoy it. I had pretended not to see his eyes roaming hungrily over me when I had been getting ready.

“Let’s just go inside,” I said, a frown gracing my lips. I didn’t trust Thelven. I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. “Will you feel awkward in there?” I asked, deciding to ignore my mistrust for the time being.

“Will you?” His gaze was simply curious. “I know you and the King have . . . _history_.” The word implied that he knew more than what he was saying.

I stiffened. I had not spoken to Thelven of my issues with Alistair, but he had guessed. He had come with me to a few events, always in my shadow; I knew he had seen my longing glances towards Alistair, and heard my strained conversations with him whenever we did converse on the rare occasion. I hated how he still made me feel as if I were inadequate, and nothing more than the Elven girl he had a brief affair with years ago. That was all it was. An affair; there had been no deeper feelings, no ulterior meaning to the time that we had spent together.

After all, our loyal King needed to be faithful to his Queen. It was what Ferelden had deserved at this point.

“I’ll be fine.” I said curtly. I had managed to steel myself against my feelings for Alistair; I could look at him without crying, nor without feeling a wave of inadequacy choke me. I hated how I was still in love with him, even after all this time. I had thought that my feelings would die down over time, but they had become simply bitter. If there was a way that I could forget that we had ever been together . . . ever loved like we did . . . I would do it in a heartbeat. “We need to make an appearance at some point tonight.” I said, taking my mind off of Alistair.

Mostly, for the entirety of the party, we stayed on the outskirts. We had missed the meet - and - greet with the King and Queen; which, I supposed it had been my subconscious intention all along. I knew Alistair had seen me. I could feel his gaze burning holes into my dress. To my credit, I never turned to look at him. Not even when my heart begged my brain to just turn around, face him once more, show him that I still cared. I had ignored my heart, downing another drink to keep up my liquid courage to remain in his presence, but not acknowledge that I was there for him. 

As Warden - Commander, I was going to be attracting a lot of attention regardless. I carried on conversations with a lot of different people whom I would soon forget. They wanted to know about many things, mostly about my time as a Warden and what I was currently doing with Ferelden’s young, whom had joined the Order to follow in my footsteps. I spoke with Anora for about an hour as well; the young Queen treated me as a close friend, even though I knew we had our unspoken issues. I ended up cutting it short with her once I saw Alistair making his way over, making some sort of excuse about how I needed to get a drink. Anora had known. I could not hide from her sharp, searching gaze. 

“It’s time for a dance,” Thelven whispered in my ear, his breath hot against my earlobe. He interrupted my conversation. “Then we can go?”

“I suppose so,” I murmured, giving a quick apology to the noble and allowing Thelven to lead me to the other dancing couples. His calloused thumb was running across the flat of my hand, and I almost found it reassuring if not for the dark, secluded look in his eyes. My heart pounded in my throat. Not from nerves, but from uncertainty; fear.

My gaze involuntarily traveled to Alistair. I could see him watching me, and a sense of satisfaction rose within me. I gripped Thelven’s hand tightly, and breathed in deeply as he pulled me close to his chest. The fear and uncertainty was gone. Alistair still watched me, and I didn’t think I wanted him to stop. Besides, wasn’t this apart of my game? Guilt pricked me, and I felt heat flush across my face.

Thelven brushed his lips up the column of my neck, and I sighed audibly. Our bodies moved in sync as he twirled me across the floor, my fingers tight around his own. I lost myself to the beautiful intricacy of the dance, revealing in the feeling of Thelven pressed against me, and Alistair’s burning gaze scorching my skin. I knew I would regret this; I hated making him jealous, and I hated showing off, but I felt I had to. My guilt could be ignored for the time being.

All of a sudden, I was unbalanced. Only one of my legs were on the floor, and I wrapped my arms around Thelven’s neck in order to regain my balance. Amusement furled itself across his face, and he brushed his lips against mine; his mouth warm and familiar. I went with it, deepening the kiss and feeling his tongue brush against my own. We stayed like that for a moment, his arms propping my upper body up and our mouths welded. I no longer felt Alistair’s burning gaze on me. I felt . . . empty, without it, despite Thelven’s lips capturing mine. He could not spark in me what Alistair did.

“Are you ready to go?” I asked breathlessly once our lips were parted. My mouth was dry, and I wanted to just go home and figure out just what I was going to do about my stupid situation, but I knew Thelven would make me open up about my performance tonight. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to address everything I had been avoiding all these years.

“I am ready when you are,” Thelven answered. “Are you finished showing off?”

My lips furled into a wry grin. As an answer, I pressed my mouth to his as he put me on my feet. My stomach dropped once I was upright again. “Was that a good enough answer?”

“For me, yes.”

Lacing our hands together, we said goodbye to our friends and acquaintances before we headed outside. Immediately, the cool air flooded across me, soothing the knot of anxiety inside of me. I relaxed. Together, we headed towards the direction of the house we were currently staying in, and yet I couldn’t push away the sense of foreboding. Even when Thelven pulled his hand away, and slipped behind me — presumably to keep a lookout from behind — I couldn’t help but frown. Something was wrong. My intuition was screaming at me to grab the blade, to parry whatever was about to catch me off guard.

“Do you know what it’s like, having to play you every single moment of every day?” Thelven’s voice is as smooth as velvet, and I freeze, hearing the dangerous edge to it. The small hairs on the back of my neck pricked, and as I made a move to face him, fire blossomed across my chest. It started between my lungs, and spread to every particle of my upper body; successfully making me feel as if I were being torn to shreds. I didn’t know what was happening. Time seemed to slow as I keeled over temporarily, my hand pressing between my breasts to lessen the pain.

Stunned, I looked down, surprised to see the tip of a blade glistening with blood. _My_ blood. 

“You’re . . .” I couldn’t catch my breath enough to talk clearly. I forced myself to stand upright to the best of my ability, throat choked, “ _traitor_.”

“ _Nooooot_ a traitor,” Thelven held his hand up, his eyebrows pulling together in amusement. I wanted to smack that look right off of him. “A Crow. Where Zevran and others failed, I will succeed.” His fingers carded through my hair, and I stumbled in an attempt to get away from him. I lost my balance, my hands instinctively reaching out to brace myself against the nearest object, which just so happened to be siding to a house. The stone scraped my palms, and I flinched, my skin prickling. I could feel my own blood rising in my throat, and streaking down my back, soaking my dress to my skin. I could taste bile.

“They told me I could go wild with such a thing; seeing with how devastated you were, I decided to take my time.” His fingers flicked the dagger still in my back, and I visibly recoiled as the pain got worse. “It was quite fun. I pretended to care; pretended to listen. You were only too easy. Emotional manipulation is what I’m good at, after all. I can’t believe you actually let me in. This was quite the experience. I can use it for my next contract.”

Tightly, my eyes closed. He _lied_  to me! All this time, all the times I had thought I was doing something right and good for myself, and my intuition had been right all along. Thelven was the first person I had accepted into my bed since Alistair and I had ended up parting. I had taken everything incredibly slow; made Thelven work for every little move that he had made. The irony that he had chosen tonight to finally end me was incredibly surprising. I hadn’t even noticed it before, but I was vulnerable. I had showed him my vulnerable side; let him see my weaker side. Tonight was the best time for it. 

Rage burned white - hot inside of me. All I knew was that I was fucking angry, and I was so upset; I wanted to get that smug grin off of his face, make him feel what I was feeling. I didn’t realize my own strength and speed; I had cut my thigh with my dagger by how quickly I had ripped it out of it’s sheath, and I plunged it into the crook of Thelven’s jaw — right between his jaw bone and his arching cheekbone — driving the blade right up through the tendons and the muscles of his face. I knew my face must be twisted in an ugly, pained fashion, but I could not care. He looked astonished, his gaze wild with shock. He had not been anticipating that I would have enough strength to best him. I loved the feeling of satisfaction that spread within me, though it did not last long, for my strength was already beginning to fade fast.

The way his skin molded and rippled to accommodate the new addition to his face could have been comical, if not for the dark spots clotting around the edges of my vision. My lungs ached as my legs gave out from underneath me, casting me right down onto the hard ground. I fell upon my knees, one hand bracing me from falling upon my face whilst the other cast aside the dagger in favor of pressing against my chest in order to stop the seemingly endless stream of blood. Distantly, as if he were miles away, I heard his body land with a solid _thud_  beside me. I could feel his blood beginning to lap at my fingers. He was dead. Out of the corners of my vision, I could see what I presumed to be his eyeball popped out from it’s socket. 

I gagged, blood dripping from my lips, feeling the rage evaporate from my body along with my strength. A sudden desperation replaced everything, and I found myself dragging my upper body forward; my blunt nails scrabbling to get a grip on the dirt and cobblestone underneath me. I felt the sudden urge to live, a new strength refilling me. 

“Come on!” I hissed to myself, aware that I couldn’t feel my legs. They seemed to trail uselessly behind me. I hated the way blood felt against my skin, and tasted in my mouth; but my own desire for self - preservation kicked in. My brain was split in two; on one hand, I wanted to just bleed out. On the other, I wanted to live; to have the Crows send someone else after me again, so I could kill them, too. I could, and I would, kill every assassin that they sent my way. I would make an example out of their failures.

The option to die seemed to win. The darkness was far more comforting than the fact that there was only far more pain for me to endure. I gave into the comforting embrace of the dark, my body losing the last of it’s strength before I had even managed to drag myself five feet.

* * *

Hazy shapes flickered behind my closed eyelids. One voice, female, spoke. She was always speaking. Though I could not make out her words, I could always hear her soothing, musical voice. I could hear her, I could hear her so clearly. But I could not make out her words. Distantly, it frustrated me, but I was too drowsy to fully feel the blunt force of the enraging feelings.

“Little Warden, it’s time to wake up.” The same voice said, and a hand touched my hair. My eyes screwed up, and I forced them to finally open; startled to see a bright white light streaming into my eyes. I immediately closed them again, and the voice sounded again. This time, she was coaxing me — a desperate edge to her voice. 

“No, no; wake up. You _must_.” There were hands on my face, and I wrinkled my nose. I couldn’t bring myself to speak yet. My throat was raw, and my tongue was dry. I could only cough in response, struggling to get my brain to cooperate with my body. Everything was sluggish. I felt as if I were struggling to kick my body back into motion, rip it from it deepest rest and force it to start.

Holding my breath, I forced my eyes open. I met the light head - on, barely refraining from flinching. I was almost stunned by the beauty of it. My gaze traveled in search of the voice, and I almost smiled when I saw her. I don’t know what made me want to smile, what comforted me enough about her to even begin assuming that I could manage a smile.

This woman was clearly Elven, but she was not Dalish. I could always tell the difference between the City and the Dalish Elves; she was softer looking, her eyes less vividly colored than my own. This woman’s bone structure was just as sharp as a Dalish’s, but there was human bloodlines in her. Her tight, frizzy, curly hair was loose; the tangled locks glimmering in the bright light. Her emerald, bright eyes were locked upon mine, and I paused, unsure of what I was supposed to say. She was simply cast in shadow, so I couldn’t see her clothes or her body. All I could see was her face.

“Who are you?” I rasped, and I saw a flash of amusement in her eyes.

“Ariasa,” the woman answered. She had no accent. Ariasa was from Ferelden, thankfully. “I know you are Lialya. You must have questions.”

“Why aren’t I dead?” I immediately blurted. A soreness pulsed between my breasts, and I winced. I regretted letting that be my second question, but I didn’t bother to take it back.

To her credit, Ariasa didn’t look surprised. She moved closer to me, taking a seat by the bed. Her robes swished with every little movement, and I wondered if she were a mage. I presumed she was. A wound like my own would have only been healed by magic. One, bony finger touches the exact sore spot between my breasts, and I leaned back; my eyebrows raising. I did not know how to react to this woman. She was brazen, but she was sensual. I tried not to read too much into the little, casual movement, but I could not help but be startled with how forward she was. 

“You . . . wanted to die?” The woman asked, head tilted to the side. She seemed genuinely confused. “I wasn’t expecting that.” My gaze remained steady, and she sighed, deciding to answer me. “You aren’t dead because of my magic.” _Score one for my tuition,_ I thought bitterly as she spoke. “I found you bleeding out beside a dead body. I recognized you at once, and I brought you home. The Warden - Commander shouldn’t die by betrayal; it should be when her Calling comes.” She sounded so matter - of - fact. How she knew about a Calling, I didn’t know. She didn’t explain, and I didn’t ask.

I closed my eyes. Ever since I had lost Alistair, I had prayed to the Creators that I would get my Calling. Sometimes I felt as if there was an irresistible urge drawing me back to the Deep Roads, but it had to be my own imagination. It always faded before I could be sure. But I had wished with every part of my being that it were true. I would never be truly happy with him, and that was just fault of my own. I had come to realize that over the years.

“The entirety of Ferelden must think you’re dead by now.” Ariasa continued, and my heart - rate picked up.

“How long have I been out?” I asked, accepting the water that she offered me. I greedily drank. What she had said had not sunken in yet.

“Two weeks. They held a funeral for you last week.” Her voice was grim, and I couldn’t help but shiver.

I closed my eyes. My breath rasped audibly in my chest. I didn’t know what to say in response; if they held a funeral for me . . . I could barely hear her words behind the throbbing of my pulse; it dominated my hearing, and I felt tears prick my gaze. I was dead. I was _dead_ ; Ferelden didn’t know any better! At this point, I didn’t even know if I knew any better. I could be imagining this entire thing.

“Warden, it’s not over; I didn’t heal you; all I did was seal the wound.” Ariasa touched the spot again, and I bit back a groan. This time, it hurt. “The blade broke inside when I tried pulling it out. It’s stuck; I still have to get it out. I couldn’t remove it earlier. I needed you to be awake for that.”

Before I had a chance to answer, to ask her to repeat what she had said, blinding pain awoke inside of me. I couldn’t bite back a shriek. I found that my hands were stuck at my sides, and I could hardly stand to even move my head. Ariasa’s dark gaze remained focused, and she seemed oblivious to my agony; only simply choosing to throw herself completely into her work. Despite my pain, my gaze was sharpened with keen interest; I could see the tip of a blade beginning to push it’s way through my chest, through the already scabbing wound. Before I could stop it, I had whimpered, unable to hold such a thing back. I felt embarrassed for letting such a sound leave my lips, but Ariasa didn’t even acknowledge it.

Ariasa viciously grabbed the blade, blood spreading onto her fingers. She pulled it out through my chest, and I shrieked again, my throat absolutely raw. As soon as it was out, albeit, the pain stopped. The wound healed itself over again, and everything felt clearer. It was almost as if it never existed. My breathing was getting clearer, and my head felt as if it were no longer splitting. I collapsed back onto the bed, pressing a hand against the already - scarring wound, getting my breathing back under control.

“That’s why I needed you to be awake.” The mage examined the blade before placing it down on a table. “Albeit, you’ll have to stay here for a few more weeks; maybe a moon. I need to keep an eye on that.” 

That did it. My mind was made up. “I can’t stay.” I tried to push myself to my feet, but my legs felt numb. Along with Ariasa’s help, she pushed me back into a comfortable position on the bed. I growled in annoyance at having to remain bedridden. “I can’t pretend I’m dead. I have to fix this. This isn’t right.”

The mage shook her head. “Sorry, Commander; all you can do right now is send a letter to inform that you are not dead, nothing more. Anything more could endanger your health.”

“Why do they think I’m dead?” I asked curiously, figuring that I would send word to the Warden’s soon. Not now. I needed to think of what I would say. Did Alistair know if I was dead? He had to know. It would be impossible not to. 

“I’m an apostate, the man you were with was a Crow. Put it together; you’d die without my magic, and someone would come looking for you and kill me, thinking that I aided in helping someone kill you.” She stretched, and I frowned at where this was going. “So I used a bit of magic, kinda . . . glamoured a body and such, and — well, you’re dead!” Ariasa actually looked a bit nervous. Her eyebrows knitted, and I frowned even more at what was going on.

Traitorous thoughts filled my brain, and I closed my eyes. No one but Ariasa and I knew the truth; if I wanted, I could cast aside all responsibility until my Calling came. I could stay dead; I could escape myself and my responsibilities. I could sacrifice my name, my past, my life; no one would ever know the difference.

But that wasn’t me. I wasn’t that type of person, I actually had a sense of responsibility, and an overwhelming feeling of guilt. I would never feel right about my decision.

“I’m sorry, Ariasa,” was what I ended up saying, “I’m grateful that you did so much for me, but I . . . I can’t stay dead. I have to go; I have to go back to the Wardens.” I pretended I missed the flash of disappointment in her eyes. The crushing realization of my decision and the burden of what I still had left to do settled upon my shoulders.

The first thing I had to do was visit the Wardens in person, and call a hearing with the King and Queen. I needed to show the world I was alive. 


	11. first kisses.

The first kiss wasn’t anything special.

Unlike the kisses that came to follow, the first belonged in it’s own category, for there was never another like that one. The kiss that was the father to the rest, that allotted them the chance to show each other just how deep affections ran could not be recreated. Boy, did they try, but it was nothing like what they had once experienced.

First kisses often are an accident, as this one was. Instead of a drunken mistake, a calculated plan, or a loss of will, this kiss was purely by chance. Blood had been boiling with excitement, hearts pounding, eyes locking from across the battlefield. It felt as if the Wardens were connected; thoughts merging into one as each move became purely instinctual. 

A hand graced against a nape of a neck, and hands found their place along hips. Space between two bodies was closed within simple moments, and lips came to be touching. It was sensual, chaste, even a bit searching. At first, it was just a touch of the lips. A simple touch that led to deepen the kiss, both eager to explore each others taste.

Both tasted of blood that belonged to them and the Darkspawn, of excitement; of curiosity tinged with the bitter taste of fear. Movements were synced, for as one threaded her fingers along damp strands, the other cupped flushed cheeks — running calloused thumbs along her stained skin. 

Nothing to follow would compare to the breathlessness that followed; the smiles that pulled up swollen lips, the glow in their eyes once they parted, unable to hide the nervous laughter that bubbled from their throats. Hands would come to be intertwined, both seeing the other in a new, fresh light.

The kisses that came to follow were still as important as the first, yet never could compare. Kisses of greeting and goodnight, kisses if intimacy that followed to kisses of lust, kisses of sadness, kisses of comfort. Kisses of good luck before Darkspawn battles, and then the final kiss that was the most important; the kiss of goodbye as both forced themselves to face up to the enemy that had been antagonizing them for longer than they could recall.

But, even through that, no kiss that could be shared between the two would _ever_ live up to that first one. Not even the kiss that confirmed their union.


	12. nightmares.

Nightmares never were the Warden Commander’s strong suit. 

As a young girl, she hadn’t had them. Whereas her twin suffered from surreal night - terrors, and often woke her with his agonized cries and his desperate thrashing, she had never truly experienced them until the Taint had loomed over her head, twisting along the edges of her mind and changing her idea of reality. The nightmares she had during the three days that were a blur of physical agony and unintelligible voices, she couldn’t seem to completely recall. She could briefly remember seeing Tamlen’s face, Camcen’s, Lehel’s, Fenarel’s, Merrill’s — all twisted in absolute agony — and that had been enough for her. The childish part of her wanted to believe that she would never have another one, but the logical part told her that she would eventually have another.

Those nightmares hadn’t returned until after she had become a full Grey Warden, with the Taint subdued and her mind subjected to all the horrors of what she was currently facing. On the road with no one but Alistair, Tamlen, and Morrigan for company, they had taken their limited chances to rest whenever they could. With Tamlen on watch, ready to howl when there was any sign of danger, Lialya had managed to settle down for a quick nap in her private tent. That night, images of Darkspawn and the Archdemon had plagued her mind; disturbing her rest enough until she felt as if she were falling through a thick void of nothingness. She had jerked into an upright position and realized that she had simply been dreaming, but was thoroughly shaken.

With reassurance from Alistair came the heavy information that this nightmare was only the beginning of many. Long days on the road left little time for nightmares, but thanks to the Taint’s connection to the Darkspawn and the Archdemon, time spent for rest was time spent lying awake. Arms would often be crossed over her chest in an attempt to crush back the oncoming swell of panic that would lead to breathing problems, and involuntary tears. It was surprising that she went on as long as she did with such little sleep; her body eventually did collapse at the worst of times, but always when they were in the safety of camp. 

When she had started sharing her bed with Alistair, the nightmares and insights that plagued her mind seemed to evaporate. Just being wrapped up in his strong arms with his chin on her shoulder, and his warm breath tickling her neck, sleep had come very easily. Though they shared a tent, a bedroll, or whatever else they had slept on, they never did much that required intimacy. Nights spent wrapped up completely in his arms were her favorite. His familiar scent brought her good dreams. Dreams of a future with children and mabari; dreams of traversing Thedas; dreams of a future that would never be.

Some nights, the nightmares would return, even when she was tucked up so safely and comfortably. She’d awaken with a sharp gasp, body trembling and coated in cold sweats; thoroughly unable to realize that she was safe, and not in any moral peril. Sometimes, Alistair would wake when she did, offering meager words of comfort. HIs hands would rub her arms, and he’d press tender kisses to the back of her neck and to her temples; telling her that she was safe, and that she was going to be just fine. Others, he would remain asleep, and Lialya would fight her instinct to panic, and force herself to calm down before she disrupted his rest. He needed sleep just as much as she did. It was selfish to expect him to wake up every time that she found herself tormented.

But since the destruction of the Archdemon, the nightmares had momentarily ceased. Things had . . . things had also changed. Leliana had disappeared; she had left little word of where she was going, but Lialya had the sneaking suspicion that she went to confront her demons in Orlais. Zevran had returned to Antiva for his boots — or, so he said. He would return eventually. The group that had become her second family had dispersed back to where they had come from, or had gone off to pursue their own dreams. It was the least that she could expect; to have them remain with her was unkind. The Blight would not last forever, and neither would their rebel group.

Whereas she? Lialya found herself still involved with the Grey Warden’s, and was now their elated Commander. She found herself back in Oghren’s company, and that thought pleased her immensely. Though she would never admit it, Oghren had been a hilarious addition to their title group, and she regretted not going to Orzammar much sooner to recruit him. Anders, a Mage whom made his escapes from the Circle quite frequently, also had been conscripted, and despite his outward stingy appearance, he was a kind, thoughtful man. Though he would never really fit in with the others, she appreciated his company and his snarky remarks. She hoped that at some point in the future he would see sense in confiding in her, but it was just a waiting game until he decided that he could trust her.. 

Alistair, now, was King. He ruled over Ferelden well, with Anora as his advisor. Eamon had returned to Redcliffe to console Isolde and Conner, with Teagan at his side. Denerim had been completely and utterly repaired, and a time of peace spread across their country. Not enough to fully please Lialya, but enough that it . . . it was nice to see people of separate races getting along for once. Who knew what a Blight could accomplish!

Because Lialya was Dalish by birth, and her bloodline could easily be traced all the way back for generations, she was not permitted to become Queen. Ever. Ferelden as a whole would never stand for that. The Warden organization also commanded that she stay unbiased when it came to politics, so again, she couldn’t. In secret, after the Blight was over and before he had been coronated, she and Alistair had gotten married. When she was in Denerim, they would spend nights together; and often she would be able to convince him to neglect his royal responsibilities just to spend more time with her before she had to return back to the other Warden’s. After all, moments shared between them could never last too long. They had to take advantage whilst they had the chance.

In spare time, when they went months without any physical contact, they wrote letters to each other. At parties they would sneak away together, then return when it was most important. Everyone had to know about their still - continuing relationship, but neither of them seemed to care. Neither would marry another, even for public appearances. Soon the topic of an heir would come up, but that would be a bridge to cross later. Perhaps the Creator’s would bless Lialya and give her a pardon; a way to start her own family, and show the rest of Ferelden that Elves were not the creatures that human’s thought them to be.

Nevertheless, those were all issues for the future. Days when no one got upon their backs to do their duties were to be cherished. Alistair could spare time to sneak out to the fort to spend a few days with her, and Lialya could trust her subordinates to properly deal with the Wardens - to - be without scarring them for life. Sometimes intimacy would be the first thing on their minds, sometimes it was gentle touches with tender kisses that practically screamed longing. Others, it was hushed conversations in secret alcoves, or cliché story - book dinners that were almost too good to be true. Each was a stolen moment that they would end up repaying at a later date.

The best thing of it all? Lialya had not had a single nightmare revolving around the Archdemon since it’s destruction. She had had smaller ones, ones that she could forcibly wake herself up from. Her mind was _finally_  free. Most nights she had the bliss of a dreamless sleep. When she was with Alistair, she dreamed of what could only be their future in another universe. Humanistic dreams; ones that contained items that could not possibly come from their current one.

This moon was one of the more relaxed ones, if she were being quite honest. She had no requirement to be all strict and business - like; she was more of a friend to the recruits than their strict instructor. She could not say what it had been like for Alistair back in Denerim, for all she had were a few letters that were weeks old. He seemed to have little time to write to her these days, and it bothered her to no end. She missed his soothing words, paired with his promises of a rendezvous soon.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t seen Alistair since the Mid - Summer party, during which there had been no time to sneak away. Lialya had been ensnared in conversation all night, tossing impatient looks at Alistair, who had the same expression and thoughts as herself. His own conversations were just as rushed, and he kept trying to make his way to her, but there were just too many obstacles. It was now the Eve of Fall, leaving close to two moons that they had spent apart. No contact being shared between them. Lialya had lucked out, albeit; Alistair had personally shuffled things around so that he could make a trip out to the fort and stay for a week or so. Possibly longer!

He had arrived that afternoon, and after dinner, neither had seen fit to move from her bed. Not when the linens and pillows called, not when the warmth shared between the two was just too tempting to pass up. No one had come to disturb them, so they were alone. It seemed that this was the fated night that Lialya’s nightmares returned, but this time worse than ever. Everything had been far too good for the time being, things had been on her side; it was due time that something bad happened. It had started with an increase of her heartbeat, and a small, hitching gasp, and then she was stirring whilst she slept. Fingers clenched and curled into her palms, nails slicing at the calloused heels. Her skin was slowly beginning to turn white from the pressure she was applying, as were her knuckles. She didn’t know how she managed to squirm out of Alistair’s tight, loving embrace, but she didn’t feel his warm arms around her any longer.

The linens underneath her were soaked down to the mattress with sweat, and her skin was clammy. Her body ached from tossing and turning, and later then tensing and instinctively flexing her legs and arms out. Teeth ground together, attempting to bite back cries that still managed to spill out from her chapped lips regardless. Behind her closed eyelids her eyes were darting to - and - fro, viewing horrors that only she could see.

At first, when the nightmare had been starting, she mumbled. Words had been unintelligible, and she did it every few minutes. Now that she was able to see faces flashing across her closed eyelids, distinguishable words spilled out. Blurred and mulled together, but distinguishable all the same.

“Tamlen . . . No, don’t touch that — don’t touch . . . don’t touch the mirror,” she begged, her voice rasping and catching. She could see him reaching for the glass, clear as day. His familiar, beautiful face flashed to the ghoulish creature that he had become, and then back again. She could feel his gaze burning into her skin, as if questioning her as to why she didn’t try harder to keep him from destroying himself. Why didn’t she move faster, why didn’t she beg more? Why didn’t she save him? “No, no, I have to . . . I have to stop you . . . don’t — _no_!” 

The image changed, and she was faced with Lehel. Her twin brother had sweat flattening his dark hair to his head, and blood seemed to unrealistically pour from his mouth. It was a crimson tide that began pooling at her feet, lapping hungrily at her boots. She could barely make out his words when he spoke. Startled, she leaned forward to hear him better, feeling panic tear her heart to shreds.

“Lia . . . ly . . . a . . .” He groaned, his bloodied hand reaching for her. The Warden Commander could feel his hot fingers graze across her skin, as if he were there with her. Blood was left in his fingers wake. His azure irises rolled within his head, and his body threatened to give out as he stumbled closer. She could feel his breath hot upon her skin, the blood from his mouth dripping upon her boots.

_Drip, drip, drip._

She could hear it, clear as day. It echoed within her mind, tearing at her eardrums. Lialya fought to clamp her hands down over her ears to just get it to _stop_ , but, her arms would not raise like that.

“Lehel, no, no,” she cried, her voice straining. Her body began to writhe on the bed. She could feel the damp linens clinging to her skin as she moved. “I can’t — no, you’ll be fine!” Slashes seemed to blossom across his torso, and Lehel’s eyes stretched until they were nothing but rings of white tinged with red surrounding the startling bright azure. “Let me help you!” Lialya wailed, but it was as if she were paralyzed; she couldn’t apply pressure to his wounds, or console him. Nothing wanted to work for her! “Please, don’t leave me! Don’t _**leave me**_!” Her voice rose to a strangled cry, desperation burning a pit within her stomach..

Images flashed faster behind her eyelids. Tamlen, ghoulish and deceased, his black lips peeling back over his rotting teeth. His customary blond hair was gone; leaving his head bald. The trademark tattoo upon his face was nearly swallowed whole by the ghoulish purple hue that dominated his skin; he looked as if he were one giant bruise, but his flesh was so hot to the touch. So hot. She could barely stand to hold onto his wrist for too long, for she feared that she would burn her fingers. 

Lehel, bloodied and terrified replaced Tamlen. Her twin brother was standing, but he was writhing; his body contorting and twisting as he screeched. His skin seemed to become translucent, and Lialya could see his organs pulsing unnaturally. His lungs throbbed up against his ribs whilst his heart thrashed around his chest wildly, until it broke free from it’s bony prison. The vision of him did not last long.

Leliana, eyes clawed out and throat torn open. Her hair was cropped even shorter than it usually was, and when her mouth fell open, Lialya could see her eyes upon her tongue. Biting back a scream of terror, Lialya was forced to watch as her mouth clipped shut again and as she swallowed, her eyes sliding down her throat until they landed upon the split skin.

Zevran, head nearly decapitated and tendons of his neck exposed. His amber hues were horrifically glazed upon her, his lips pulling up into startling creepy smile. His tendons pulled and stretched as Zevran’s head flopped bonelessly to the left, and then to the right; all the while fresh blood spilling down his bronzed skin.

Tamlen, back twisted grotesquely and maw parted in a soundless wail of agony. From the ominous way Tamlen’s full, mocha hues were locked upon her cued in to the fact that he was indeed dead. But the twitching of his paws and the wriggling of his nose suggested otherwise.

Oghren, skull split completely in half and brain exposed. He was still alive, crimson dripping down from his long hair and coating his face. His eyes were so stark and brilliant, fixated completely upon her. His mouth moved, but no words coming out.

Sten, legs sliced cleanly off. The Qun pulled himself towards her with his strong forearms, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. She could see the bone, the muscle and the tissue of where his legs had been removed.

Anders, face mutilated to the point of where she hardly recognized him. Underneath the blood and the muscles, she saw what was left of his mouth pull up into what could only be a smile, his teeth clacking together as if he were anticipating biting her.

Wynne, her back turned towards Lialya. When she turned, her staff had been shoved through her chest, eyes blinking with confusion. Her chin was bloodied, and it foamed at her lips; her body collapsed as her strength gave out.

Morrigan, a small hole in her throat contributing to the choking gasps that ripped from her red-tinged lips. She collapsed to her knees, her hand pressed against the hole, but by the way her body shook and the way she fell completely down to the ground, she was dead. 

Anora, her neck snapped. Her bones cracked as she moved, and her head swiveled as if she were finally free. Lialya could hear the cracking echoing within her head, and she just wished it would _stop_.

Shale, a simple pile of crushed rocks and crystals. He seemed to be trying to piece himself back together, the rocks trembling as they tried to form, but it only succeeded in making himself even dustier than he was before.

Teagan, tongue hanging out of his mouth and ears missing, leaving gaping red holes in his skull. Upon closer inspection, she could see that his eyelids had been pulled off; leaving his beautiful eyes bare for all to see.

Last, but not least, Alistair. He was sliced open from hip - to - hip, his arms cradling the spill of organs that seemed to want to slide out through the gaping opening. His eyes were blank, glassy. To Lialya’s horror, his chest was sliced in two; the flaps that would cover his breastbones and his lungs were being peeled back, revealing his starchy ribs and his pink lungs. His crown was sat lopsided upon his head, flecked with blood. In his hands he had the rose he gave her, and his mothers amulet. The rose was crushed, the petals fluttering to the ground. The amulet seemed to glitter in a sinister way, as if it were mocking Lialya. Mocking Alistair. 

The images flicked in order, one right after another. They seemed to get more grotesque as they flashed by; finer details were added. Maggots writhed amongst their organs, or in their eyes and open mouths. Black flies flew around and sat on their skin. Their lips would begin peeling back over their mouths, their teeth were beginning to turn black. They began to decay.

They flashed faster now, faster and faster. Alistair’s popped up more and more frequently, as did Lehel’s and Tamlen’s. Their faces were being burned into her memory, making her unable to forget them. She was sure that she was sobbing out their names as their faces passed, but she had no way of telling. She could feel their names breaching her lips, and feel her guilt completely choking her. They were dead. They were dead and it was because of her. She couldn’t save them. She failed.

Hands upon her shoulders woke her, and before Lialya knew it, she was screaming. Raw sounds were being pulled from the back of her throat. The pressure she was applying to her palms let up suddenly. Tears streaked down her cheeks, spilling consistently over her waterlines. 

“I couldn’t protect them,” she was crying out, “I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t save you, I couldn’t protect _you_! I failed!” 

Alistair was holding her wrists, and as her gaze cleared enough so that she could see what was in front of her, she saw his worried expression pulling his beautiful features down. His eyes were wildly searching hers, seeming frightened by her outburst. Her clammy body was held tight against his, almost as if he were afraid that she would hurt herself in her writhing. Alistair’s face was pale, and he looked exhausted as if he had been up for a long time. Yet, as he calmed, she found herself slowly beginning to come down from whatever panicked state she was in. Not enough to be able to speak coherently, but enough to gain control over her movements again.

“I failed. I failed, I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save any of you,” she repeated in a broken voice, hiccups breaking through after each word.

_‘You’re a Grey Warden; everything you love will become everything you lose,’ Wynne murmured._

_‘Is it better to just not love at all? To break off all my relationships to save them and myself from the pain?’ Lialya asked in return, knowing that her voice sounded sharp._

_‘You can’t stop yourself from falling in love, or seeking out friendship. But, you can save dear Alistair the pain of what’s to come,’ she held up a hand when Lialya made a noise of warning, ‘he loves you. I can see that you love him, too. You must remember that you have a duty as a Grey Warden, not everything is going to be like this.’_

Wynne’s words echoed in her mind, and Lialya moved so that she was tucked into Alistair’s embrace. Her arms wrapped around his torso, her face buried in his bare shoulder. Her tears dampened his skin. One of his hands was stroking her hair, whilst the other rubbed soothing circles into her back. She was trying not to hyperventilate; her dream had been wrong. He was alive, he was right here; she could see him, smell him, feel him.

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered, his words grounding her more. “It was just a dream; I’m here, I’m real. It was just a dream.” They stayed like that for a little while; her tucked up in his arms and him soothing her with touches and words. Even after she stopped trembling, hiccuping, and her tears dried up, they still stayed in that position. Alistair never complained, just continued to comply until Lialya forcibly pulled herself away. 

As she pulled back, Alistair’s hands slid so that they were cupping her cheeks. His calloused thumbs brushed away the remains of her tears, and she leaned into his palms; glad for the warmth that he silently offered. Now that the cold sweats had also passed, her body was cold with nothing but one of his shirts on. It was still soaked in places, despite the warm air in her room. Her hair was sweaty, and she still felt shaky, but she was still considerably calmer than before.

Gently, his lips brushed against hers. Closing her eyes, she touched their foreheads together, mulling over what she would say to explain her outburst. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “I know.”

“You get them, too?”

“Not like that, but, I . . . I know.” She could hear the pain underlying his voice. “Believe me, I know. I’m so sorry.” 

“Usually you being here keeps them away, but this time it didn’t work.” Lialya squeezed her eyes shut even tighter. Her voice was shaking. “I just . . . I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save _any_  of you.”

“But I’m actually here,” he reminded. “All of us are still alive because of what you did.”

“You too, it wasn’t just me.” She opened her eyes to find him already looking at her. His knuckles were drawing down her jaw, lightly brushing against her skin. “You were a big part of it.”

Alistair exhaled. “Okay, so the both of us saved the world.” His knuckles drew back down her jaw again. She tried not to shiver. “I’m going to try and save yours, too.” 

Lialya tightly shut her eyes again. “I love you, Alistair, so much. I don’t think I would be able to survive if anything happened to you.” She whispered, fighting back the growing sense of grief. “I lost Tamlen, and I lost Lehel; don’t make me lose you as well.”

His hand slid against hers. Alistair’s fingers fit between the spaces perfectly, as if they had been meant for each other. They were like two pieces of a puzzle, their edges fitting only when they’re together. Everything about him brought comfort and love to her. She hadn’t realized how much she missed him during these past few moons. When it came time for him to leave, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to handle it; she needed him far more than she had ever realized.

“I’m not going anywhere.”


	13. sweet nothings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk where this was going but the dalish ! warden & alistair just get me every fucking time. 
> 
> like who gave them PERMISSION to be so adorable ?? like c'mon ?? just let them be happy pls & thank.

Alistair didn’t know when he fell in love with her. 

They had been invited to share camp with the Dalish; she seemed too excited to be amongst her own people again, and her excitement only made Alistair more curious to see what she had been like before she had become a Grey Warden. It warmed his heart to see her look so natural; not at all like a sore thumb. In Redcliffe, and in Denerim, she was simply just a _knife ears_ ; an Elf that was presumed to have been released from the Alienage. She looked too rough to be a servant, and yet she was still treated like trash — regardless of her title. With the Dalish, albeit, she was perfectly at home. 

Elvish flowed so freely off of her tongue. She had looked so natural; the corners of her lips lifting up into the widest, happiest smile he had seen on her lips. Her eyes had been nearly unrecognizable; they had been bright, gleaming with friendliness and love. For once, she wasn’t tensed; she was completely at ease and she laughed far more than what he had ever heard before. There had been something so natural about watching her interact with the other Dalish; it had been a side of her that he had never seen before. Even when she had been conversing with Elves in the Alienage, he had seen wariness and hesitation pricking her voice and her eyes. Albeit being of the same race, they had been a different species to her. As much as his beloved Warden tried to hide how she truly felt, she could never hide completely from him. 

She was so kind to everyone she came across; her friendliness inspired things inside of him. Even though his quarrels with Morrigan never seemed to end, he found himself trying to be nicer to her; even to Zevran and Sten! Albeit, it was hard to be kinder to Sten; the Qun seemed determined to keep them all at arms-length and undermine them at every single turn. Zevran seemed confused by the kindness, and he tended to flirt with Alistair when he became uncomfortable. Morrigan still responded in hostility, yet it didn’t get under his skin like it used to. After each encounter, all his Warden had to do was look over at him with an amused look in her eyes, and he’d immediately soften.

“They’ll come around, _ma vhenan._ ” She would say, pressing a kiss to his temple. He still had no idea what the words meant, and she wouldn’t tell him; both are determined to take things incredibly slow. When he would ask, she would deny, and then murmur: “ _Ma serannas_ ,” flashing an endearing grin his way when he snorted in frustration. 

Early that morning, he had felt her slip out of their shared tent. Though they weren’t officially in the camp, and merely on the outskirts, that didn’t seem to bother his Warden. She carried herself confidently, and if she weren’t wearing such distinct armor, he would lose her amongst everyone else. She fit in so well. He, Morrigan, and Zevran were the sore thumbs now. 

“Lialya,” he called, hurrying after her. “Wait.”

“ _Mythal’enaste_ ,” she purred, leaning forward to press her lips to his. Surprised, he immediately kissed her back, utterly relaxed as she brushed their noses together. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve never seen you so happy before.” Alistair frowned, watching as her gaze darkened. 

“I know this isn’t my home,” she began, twining their hands together. Her skin was just as weathered as his, yet she still several shades lighter. “ _Abelas_ , I miss my Clan very much, and my mirror image — or, as your people say, _twin_. Being here brings back many memories that I . . . I miss my home. Very badly. Everything has moved and changed so quickly; this is the closest I’ll get to familiarity for a long time. I just want to feel like I belong. Ever since I left, I feel like I have been drowning in an abyss of blood, gunk, and gore; when I was back home, I was treading in clear waters, sure of myself and knowing what I was doing. I hate that I feel like this. I don’t feel like this when I’m with you; I feel certain right now. I feel even more so since I am in a place similar to what I used to call _home_ , but when we get to the camp and when we go out . . .” Her voice trailed off. She seemed aware that she was rambling, and a sense of affection rose inside of Alistair. 

Though he had no idea that she had a twin, he couldn’t be surprised. He was aware of the fact that she had an elder brother, whom had met his demise when a strange sickness ripped it’s way through the Sabre Clan, but that’s all he really knew of her family. She hardly spoke of her time with the Clan, or of her first lover. _That_ was a subject he was not allowed to touch. Lialya would immediately clam up, making excuses about how she had other things to do. He worried about her when she got like that, for she began to grow distant. Albeit, she’d open up whenever she was ready.

It had to be this place. This place had to have been where he truly realized the extent of his feelings. It was still too soon to say what he truly felt — he didn’t want to scare her off. 

“You’re homesick, even though you’re in a place similar to your home,” his eyebrows knitted together. “I can understand how you feel. You don’t need to apologize, or stop talking if you think that it’s going to far. You belong in an environment like this because it’s one of the only ones you’ve ever known. It wasn’t fair to you to make you leave.” 

“If I hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have met you, _ma vhenan._ ” She whispered. Their foreheads were touching now, fingers interlocked. They were so close that he could feel the quivering of her exhausted muscles. 

“Will you ever tell me what that means?”

“Hm?” Her eyes fluttered shut, and Alistair took his chance to admire her simple beauty. She wasn’t like the working girls at the _Pearl_ ; she was not curvaceous, and she didn’t trouble herself with makeup. She wasn’t like the noble women, with their fancy dresses and their soft features. No . . . in most eyes, she would be considered simple and plain — but in his, she was so tragically beautiful.

Dark eyelashes resting upon porcelain skin, rosy lips pulled up into a soft smile, no hard lines of stress or anger pulling at her features. Right now, he loved her more than he could ever begin to explain. There were no words. 

“I don’t think so, _abelas_ ,” her eyes opened again. “Soon. All I shall tell you that it is a . . . term of endearment, as your people say.”

So secretive! Rather than push again, he just squeezed her hand. “I can’t wait to find out what it means, my love.”


	14. king & queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just have so many feelings.

It’s five years after the Fifth Blight that something concerning happens.    

Made King and Queen, protectors of Ferelden and Commanders of the Grey, Alistair and Lialya rule. Surprisingly, there had been little uproar over an Elven Queen. No Crows were contacted in order to take her out, nor were there too many riots. Having an incredibly involved Queen, someone who the people could relate to and bond with, had certainly helped her case. She had supporters in every city and little town, so any little sign of rebellion rising was quickly crushed by those whom adored her. It was both humbling and touching to see that so many would support her relationship with the bastard Theirin heir, and her unusual claim to the Throne. Yet, it still grieved her to know that she had almost given up this chance, _almost_ being the key word. If she had not foreseen the possibility of such a wondrous outcome, she would have let Alistair slip from her fingers.

In five years, Denerim had been rebuilt to a point in which it was completely unrecognizable. Everywhere else that had been destroyed by the Blight was beginning to reach it’s former state, and Lialya had filed a motion for the Alienage’s to be completely dispersed of. They had a Elven Queen now — Dalish, Elven Queen — what was the point of separating the races anymore? Many cities had already gotten rid of them, by decree of the new Royal Law, but some still fought the new Law just to simply keep to the old ways. The four year battle was beginning to wane thin, with more cities giving way, but there were still some to let go of their past. The Dalish also had a protection Law put on them; no human was ever again allotted to track them down and kill their people for sport. Any crime against the Dalish was now punishable by long-term imprisonment in a new cellblock close to the guard’s station in Denerim, or, if severe enough, by death. Lialya herself already had executed a few who broke this Law, but she had become more lax as less and less crimes were committed against her people.

Many things Alistair and Lialya had been called over the years. Elven sympathizers, traitors, heathens — but in truth, this had been building for many centuries. This fight had been an ongoing one for so long that she forgot it’s original origins ( was it Andraste? ) . She had been anticipating the negative backlash of  these Law’s when she had been writing them, yet she hadn’t been anticipating how much positive support there would be. So many banded together to get Elves actual jobs, rather than having them remain as servants. The castle now had less staff than it did prior to the Law, but it didn’t matter; both were so used to doing things themselves that they didn’t mind it just being them. There were still hate-crimes, but those would never be abolished entirely. Now, albeit, Lialya was now working on a new Law to band all the leaders together — the King of Orzammar, Dalish Keeper’s, Arl’s and the Theirin’s — at least once a year to go over Law’s and anything that sounded important. Hopefully by the next year it would be an active Law that all the Leader’s of Ferelden could come to respect. 

The Warden’s were beginning to swell in ranks again; Lialya had never seen so many of Ferelden’s youth in one place! Children she had encountered, so many children whose lives she had once saved, ready to give their lives in service to their country. Few have perished to the Darkspawn blood in the mixture, and for that, she was glad. The more people that they had within their ranks left little pressure on herself and Alistair; they could focus upon their royal duties without having to stress over splitting their time between both. Lialya trusted Oghren to run things in her absence. 

As it had with Anora and Cailan, the issue of an heir had indeed come up. No one truly knew which one was the one whom was unable, but Lialya knew that there was no chance for either of them. The Taint wiped out everything within her, excluding her old connection with Lehel. She and her twin brother still remained linked, even with all that she had undergone. 

On the note of a child, there had been once over the years that she thought she was pregnant. She had felt the change inside of her, felt the growth and the warmth, but it had not . . . ended as well as she hoped it was. By the second term, it became evident that the Taint destroyed the fetus within. A premature birth caused for days of labor, fingers curled into Alistair’s hand as wails ripped from the depths of within. In the end, with a Healer gently explaining as to what had happened, any chance of conception would just end in the same way. Blood steadily seeping out, no solid body being born, the grief of birthing something that never had the chance to live. After that, they agreed; it was time to be more careful so nothing like that ever comes to happen again.

Five years, things had run almost as smoothly as possible. Five short, stressful years. What happened wasn’t even something that had been expected; it came out of the blue, shocking even the Dalish Queen.

Alistair, doing one of his hundredth coronations for some of the young knights, had held a giant ceremony for such. All of Denerim had gathered, ready to view their lovable King say age-old words. A speech was given, young knights were booted up the ranks and pleased. Just as Alistair was beginning to close, saying how proud he was of his country and how his people have turned out to be, a strange feeling spread throughout the Dalish Queen. She had simply chosen to curl her fingers into her palms, keeping on the lovable expression, staying right beside Alistair.

Her head had begun swimming, and her eyes had become unfocused, but she still stood tall and proud, unchanging and praying to the Creators that she would not pass out. If she could just hold out until the ceremony was over, she could deal with this once they got back to the castle — 

Weakness had blossomed in her knees, and thus rose to her spine. Her muscles gave out as her eyes rolled into the back of her head, body feeling the cruel grasp of gravity. Screams erupted, attacking her eardrums as she fell, being the last things she heard before things became an crushing blackness. She could swear that Alistair had dropped beside her, his hands searching her face as he yelled for help, his panic striking her in ways that she could never imagine. But there could be no words to reassure him, nothing to be done to tell him that she was _fine._

_“Our Queen is with child, that is why she collapsed!”_

_“The Taint is killing everything within, that is why she collapsed!”_

_“She’s dying, we’ll be sitting vigil for another Royal soon.”_

_“It must have been the hot air, I can’t imagine an Elf would be able to survive living in such heavy clothes!”_

Rumors flew whilst their Dalish Queen was thoroughly unable to defend herself and give her side. No, she was not with child; no, she was not dying; no, the heat did not get to her — something else had been creeping along the edges of her mind, beginning to pull at the seams of her physical connections. Four days were spent underneath the suffocating blackness, and once she had roused, she knew what was wrong.

 _Lehel_.

She could feel it in the depths of her bones. Both were connected by old magic; when both had been born, inheriting the sickness that their parents and their elder sibling had, the only thing that had been able to save them was old Dalish magic. With their twin empathetic-connection and the combination of this magic, they could feel each others emotions, each others pain, even each others thoughts on rare occasion. Her days succumbed to the Taint had been extraordinarily painful for Lehel, and his days healing from a deathly infectious wound had rendered Lialya immobile for weeks. This had to be what was going on; something was wrong with her twin, and she couldn’t bear to think of what it could be. Though his pain had only managed to paralyze her in the past, it had never knocked her completely unconscious for days on end. The amounts of agony she had endured were . . . highly similar to the Taint, but she knew that it couldn’t be happening to her brother. There was no way he could have come down with it!

No, he had to be . . . he had to be — 

“Where are you going?”

Alistair’s voice was demanding, stilling. Lialya paused as she finished adjusting her shirt, fingers toying with the stray threads. He didn’t sound too happy to find her out of bed. Though her body was aching, and her limbs screamed in protest with every little moment, she couldn’t rest with the thoughts of Lehel being deathly injured, or even dead. There was no way she was going to sit in their bed and taking no action to find out!

Five years of being pampered had diminished her strength considerably. Out of habit, she longed to crawl back into their bed and let him hold her and tell her that everything was going to be absolutely okay — but that was _not_ going to happen. She had places to go. Albeit, she must look awful; dark circles half-mooning underneath her eyes, sockets swollen from crying, cheeks puffy and splotched with color, hair disheveled and skin paler than it typically appeared to be. She was surprised that he didn’t come to offer her physical support immediately, because she must look as if she were going to collapse again! She loved him, but she was glad that he didn’t. That would just make her more tempted to remain in the castle.

“I have to return home,” her voice was cracking from lack of use. “Something’s wrong.”

“What is?” His hand touched her shoulder, and it took all of Lialya’s strength not to cringe away. It was as if she had been battered by the Archdemon all over again! “You haven’t kept anything from me since the Blight. What’s going on?”

Turning so she could face him, the Dalish Queen gently touched their foreheads together. The sensual touch always felt right to her. She could smell his familiar scent, feel his warmth spreading throughout her body. It was taking all of her strength not to cry, to stay level-headed and remain comforted. “I think something bad has happened to Lehel. It would be horrendous of me not to return home; he is my brother, my twin, my other half. I cannot ignore this.” 

“I’ll go with you.” He immediately offered.

“No, you need to stay here. I can travel farther and faster on my own, and I can return sooner. There must be a Theirin here in the castle so nothing can catch us off guard.” She opened her eyes, pulling back. Her skin immediately cooled, and she regretted their lack of contact. “I cannot ignore this. As much as I love you, we must part temporarily. I will write to you whenever I reach a courier; but I cannot take you with me. If I go now, I can make it to Redcliffe tonight and stay with Eamon, and then I can push onto the Forest come dawn.” 

Painfully, she slipped on her old dragon-scale armor over her head, moving to retrieve Starfang out from underneath their bed. Next came her Ironbark bow, which she immediately slid on along with it’s sheath of arrows. Both fit naturally into the permanent grooves it left in her shoulders, and comfort temporarily washed away her pain. Not minding Alistair’s gaze ( for it was nothing he hadn’t seen before ) , she slid off her cloth pants in favor for the second half of her armor. It fit so well, feeling far more familiar than ball gowns and dresses ever did. 

“You cannot go alone,” Alistair’s voice was as hard as she had ever heard. It sent chills down her spine, so the Dalish Queen had to fight the urge to turn and press their lips together to dispel his harsh voice. “There’s too much risk.”

“Do you think I can’t take care of myself?” Lialya’s voice became equally hard as she turned back, her gaze wry. Prickles of annoyance slid down her spine. “I’ve been taking care of myself since I was old enough to crawl; I can protect myself out in the open. I can tell the right type of people from the wrong types.” 

“Times have changed. You’re not a Warden anymore, but a Queen!” His gaze glimmered with a picture of anxiety and love. Could she blame him for being so protective? Everything had continuously gone to hell whilst they were on the road, so it was only natural that he longed to protect her from whatever else might want to ruin the good work that they were currently doing.

“That is no excuse!” Lialya snapped, finding herself unable to keep a lid upon her temper. She was exhausted, afraid, and trying not to grieve; she shouldn’t have to take it out on Alistair. It wasn’t fair to him. “I won’t put someone else’s life in danger. I have not forgotten my training, and I will not return to you as a corpse! I understand your concern, I really do, but I cannot share it.” Forcing herself to calm, the Dalish Queen wrapped her belt around her waist and buckled, adjusting her sheath so that it rested comfortably against her thigh. The sweet sound of Starfang sliding into it’s sheath graced her ears, and she closed her eyes; reveling in the familiarity of it’s weight and it’s feel. “Please, let me do this. I need to do this on my own.”

Alistair looked torn. He seemed to want to trust her, but she also could tell that he wanted to protect her. Everything thad had happened made them less likely to let the other out their sight for too long, for fear of losing them.

“You have to promise me that you’re going to come back,” his words were sorrowful, and his voice broke. His hands were clenching at his sides. “We haven’t parted in five years. I would _die_ if something happened to you.”

“I promise,” Lialya whispered as she touched her lips to his, savoring his wondrous taste and the way his lips moved to press against hers in turn. “I _will_ be returning.”


	15. try to fix you.

The kid whom had once been as such wasn’t quite a kid anymore. 

No, this was a man weighed down by his own faults and his regrets. Johnny wasn’t sure he had ever seen the Boss so downtrodden before, so desperate to rid himself of his sorrow ( though, he hadn’t been there for the ten - year period in which Léon had utterly lost himself. ) . Whenever he wasn’t in that damn simulation picking fights with anything that could code in a weapon, he was stowed away in his quarters on the ship — bottle always within arms reach and head held in his hands. 

Once, Johnny had seen the Boss digging his nails so deep into his temples that they had begun to bleed, but he’d never say that out loud. Léon hadn’t even known he was being watched, so he had to keep his lips _shut_ about that one.

There was only two occasions where Johnny had seen Léon like this. Once, back when the Saints were still themselves and had no obligations to live up to their public name; the kid had gotten so drunk that he ended up telling Johnny things. About his parents, his regrets over Aisha, his own mental disorders that were brimming and the fears he had. At the time, Johnny had hid himself away behind those trademarked sunglasses, not knowing how to respond. He didn’t blame the kid for what happened to Aisha, and how he had gotten stabbed. That was his own fault. But he knew Léon carried it like an impossibly large boulder upon his shoulders. There had been no words to comfort him, only an offer for another drink. 

The second was the kids hell - simulation. Kinzie had told Johnny that he needed to see this, and horror had settled itself like a knot between his lungs. The poor boy had been forced to endure a simulation version of Johnny beating down upon him; both physically and verbally. Léon had given his puppy - dog looks, had taken the blame upon himself, told Johnny that he could kill him and he wouldn’t care — but the simulation never stopped. It kept getting progressively worse, until Kinzie had finally broken through. ( Johnny was painfully aware that if she hadn’t, the simulation would have killed Léon over and over again. ) 

In fact, the kid wasn’t a kid anymore. Johnny had had the pleasure of looking back at photos, and holy shit, the toothpick of a child had passed him in size. At sixteen, he had joined the Saints as a ‘protégée’ ( though Johnny had been incredibly doubtful and cynical, seeing how this kid was fucking _sixteen_. ) , and through trial and error, had managed to worm his way into Johnny’s life as a friend. 

One of the photos was from that time. Johnny’s glasses had been askew on his face, and his arm slung around Léon’s shoulders. Though Johnny had been glowering at the camera, Léon had been grinning like the happiest motherfucker alive. Only days later did the kid end up in a coma, and Johnny was being shipped off to prison. 

The second was Aisha, Johnny and Léon. The asshole had been taking a candid ( with his torso still - wrapped in gauze from the explosion. ), face half - in the picture as he caught Johnny and Aisha mid - kiss in the background. The only differences between the first two photos were that Léon now had a scar on his face, and Johnny looked even more callous than before thanks to his prison time and brush with death. 

The third was simple, but it almost invoked tears from the usually - stoic Johnny. It had been the entire Saints crew — Johnny, Léon, Kinzie, Shaundi, Pierce, and a few others that were now long - gone. Shaundi had been sitting on Léon's lap, her belly - shirt showing her clear, unmarked skin. Her hands had been up, dreadlocks hanging down to her hips. Léon had been leaning back in his seat, his lips pressed into a fine line and one of his eyes black. Johnny could see that the beginnings of a third tattoo had been growing on his upper arm. Kinzie was wrapped in her FBI sweatshirt, her laptop balancing on her lap, sitting upon the pool - table with Pierce behind her. 

Pierce had his hat on and was leaning over Kinzie's shoulder, his eyes bright with interest. Johnny himself was tucked into the corner, arms folded over his chest and expression sullen. His picture - self seemed angry, and Johnny could only presume that he had still been reeling from Aisha. 

But the Boss in these pictures and the Boss that was before Johnny were not the same person. Once so skimpy, he was now broad and filled out; underneath his skin were hard muscles that almost intimidated Johnny. Across his left shoulder and dipping down into the middle of the right side of his back was a burn scar, a permanent reminder of what he had survived. He had Saints tattoos on the left side of his body ( running from his left hip down to his left thigh ) , his right upper shoulder, and left calf. These days, every single time he pulled himself from that simulation, he had new bruises and cuts. 

“He can't get deathly hurt in there!” 

Kinzie would cheerfully say, but Johnny had his fucking doubts. 

There were hard lines etched into Léon’s face now, and his hair was never carefully - groomed as it had been in the past. He constantly reeked of alcohol and was as prickly as a fucking hedgehog, always losing his temper with someone. He didn’t smile, didn’t crack witty jokes, didn't even attempt to talk anymore. Johnny knew he was shutting down. He blamed himself for what happened to the Earth, and he would never _not_ think as such. He naturally assumed the blame for he always thought things were his fault. 

One night, when Johnny had been carrying him to his quarters because the fucker had passed out drunk on the couch, he had caught the slip of his shirt. As soon as Léon had been put down on the bed, Johnny had investigated, finding something that made his heart split. 

Sprawled across Léon’s abdomen were the words: **JOHNNY GAT**. It was as if someone had haphazardly dug a blade into his skin and carved — Johnny didn't doubt for a second that the Boss had done this as a way to never forget his ‘failure’. The skin was still raw though the scars must be at least a decade old, and they were raised off his skin, almost as if Léon had left it to get infected and fester, just so that the scars would be there. 

He had gone to Shaundi then, fuming and wondering just _how_ she could have let the fucking kid do such a thing. Once questioned, she had given it up; confessing that they had both done it during a night of drinking. She even showed Johnny hers, but they were nothing like Léon’s. She had let the wounds heal and disappear, whereas Léon’s were still as stark and ugly as the night they had been created. 

This kid wasn’t the kid whom had become his best friend. This was a tormented adult with his own demons, carrying the deaths of over seven billion people upon his shoulders. 

And Johnny didn't know how to fix him. 


	16. escape.

Sharp teeth sank into the soft tendons of the Altmer’s ankle, immediately unbalancing him. Due to being mid - movement, he couldn’t help but collapse; landing hardly upon his left arm and becoming winded. He already ached, able to feel bruises begin to spread over his tender skin. Howls had been filling his ears for the more recent part of five minutes; terror instilled in every particle of his being. It was almost impossible to outrun hunting dogs. Their superior nature and four legs always gave them the higher ground. But it didn’t matter — he had already done what he needed in order to be successful. His own capture had been guaranteed. Breaking the scent lines of children had been easy enough, but breaking his own scent line would have been impossible. Capture was absolutely inevitable.

Turning sharply, Errion flipped himself onto his back, instinctively folding his arms over his face. His eyes were shut tightly, bracing for the flow of tears. When no sharp blow came wailing down upon him, and when no teeth sank into his skin again, he paused in confusion, his eyes slowly opening. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” A male’s voice was icy, chilling his core far better than the ground. “Did you think I _wouldn’t fucking notice_?” Luvie’s voice rose to an angered yell. “I hate to tell you, Errion, I _fucking_ _noticed_! You think you’re so smart, figuring out how to smuggle _my_ share of the cut out. I don’t know how you did it, I don’t know how you fucking grew a spine, but I won’t tolerate it. I won’t _fucking_ tolerate it. I’ve reached my last goddamned straw when it comes to you.”

One of Luvie’s prized hunting dogs crouched over Errion, it’s body terse as it prepared itself for a lunge. It’s eyes were bright with excitement, yet it didn’t go for the kill. It was waiting for Luvie’s word, for his direct order to preform the killing blow, or rather — bite. Errion had no doubt that it’s sharp teeth would tear into his skin within a moment and leave him to die. He couldn’t tear his gaze from the dogs burning dark gaze, from the way it licked it’s lips hungrily.

Errion raised his dark gaze once he realized that it wouldn’t attack, staring at Luvie defiantly. His jaw was set, teeth clenching together so hard that he feared that they would break. He didn’t speak. He had no words that would please Luvie.

“You son of a bitch, who helped you?” Luvie drew closer, his turquoise hues glimmering with rage. The Dunmer was absolutely enraged. “Which one of those fucks helped you?” He had the rest of his dogs flanking the one that stood above Errion. “I know you aren’t smart enough to come up with such a . . . _intricate_ plan on your own. So help me Azura, Errion, who the _fuck_ helped you?”

There was no way he was going to sell out Ra’Cha! He’d rather take his chances with Luvie than expose her plans. He had risked his life earlier by getting the kids out and by getting them to the border; hopefully, by now, they’d be safe in Cyrodiil with friends. By tomorrow, they’d be on their way to the Black Marshes; not even Luvie would chase them that far. If Ra’Cha and Errion were as smart as they thought they were, he would never pick up the trail to begin with.

To show more of his defiance, Errion tilted his chin up, never breaking eye contact with Luvie. He had never openly defied in such a way. His fear of Luvie had always crushed down any sense of rebellion that he once had. Now, he just didn’t care anymore. What was there to care for when you had nothing left? He’d rather die then stay in this type of life. Two decades was enough. It was more than enough! He was _so_ tired. If it weren’t for Ra’Cha, he’d . . . he’d probably have succumbed to Luvie by now.  

“You’re done,” Luvie shook his finger at him. “You’re _fucking done_. I have had _enough_ of your shit.” The Dunmer turned his back, gesturing to those he had brought along. He had switched to Dunmeris, his voice sounding harsh. Though Errion couldn’t understand him, he knew what was going on; he knew that order. He was dog food as soon as Luvie walked away.

For a moment, a feeling of fear rose inside of Errion, but he fought it back. At this point, he was more terrified of the hunting dog on him; it’s hot saliva drooling onto his skin, teeth bared in a violent, open-mouthed growl. Errion involuntarily shivered, finding that a second icy feeling spread throughout his body. He couldn’t — he couldn’t move? His limbs felt as if they were glued to the ground, and his back absolutely refused to arch upwards or downwards. The only appendage that he could afford to move was his head; it was minimal, but he still managed to pick it up, getting the scent of his blood upon the dogs tongue. It’s pink tongue lolled dangerously in front of Errion’s eyes, menacingly.

“Luvie,” he croaked, “Luvie! What are you doing?” 

The Dunmer looked back at him, his eyes cold. He really was finished. “I told you, you were _done_.” His voice was harsher than Errion could remember. Something, which he presumed to be spoken in Dunmeris, was spat in his direction. It didn’t register what it could possibly be until the dogs growl heightened to a delighted howl. Now, it was now! 

Errion cringed into the ground at how loud it was, fighting against whatever kept his body locked upon the hard ground. It was so loud that he longed to cover his ears, but too late he realized just how exposed he was. Sharp, tearing teeth met with the tender skin on his shoulder, skillfully ripping down his exposed bone. It’s breath was hot on his skin, and it’s teeth went back for a second bite as soon as it pulled away. 

This time, Errion cried out in pure agony, his voice breaking. He could feel his blood beginning to profusely run down his chest, seeping into the thin fabric of his shirt. In a vain attempt to escape, he twisted his head to the left, a hoarse scream pulling from the depths of his throat. Each section of his skin felt as if it were being individually picked from his tendons and muscles, and he could swear that the dogs teeth were scraping against his bones. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. All he could do was _scream_ —

* * *

“You’re awake,” hands touched his shoulders. “ _Finally_. I thought infection would have set in.” Ra’Cha’s eyes were wide, her unusual slitted pupils telling Errion that she was as worried as ever. “Luvie was aiming to kill you this time. I’m so glad you survived.” 

Errion grunted, his face twisting into a grimace. “Why . . . does everything hurt?”

“You don’t remember?” Ra’Cha’s eyes immediately narrowed.

“No, I blacked out.” His voice rasped painfully in his throat. “What happened?”

Ra’Cha sat on the bed with him, her ruby gaze grieved. He had never seen her look so somber, so horrified. “You were in an out for a few days. After Luvie had his hound rip apart your shoulder and some of your chest,” her fingers touched the fabric keeping his skin together, “you snapped back into consciousness when he brought you back here. You were saying things — things that antagonized Luvie — and he . . . well, don’t you feel it?” 

She touched his cheek, and he reacted with an unexpected flinch. The skin was sore to the touch. Come to think of it, _everything_ felt as if he had had the shit kicked out of him; his ribs hardly expanded outwards, and each breath was far too shallow to be safe. One eye was completely swollen giving him the smallest amount of sight possible, and air whistled through his broken nose. The cartilage popped with every breath. His lips were split, and Errion could see scrapes adorning his knuckles and his arms when he raised them. He didn’t remember exactly what he had said to provoke Luvie when they arrived back into hell, but apparently it had been bad enough to worry Ra’Cha.

“Fuck,” Errion groaned, slowly pushing himself into a sitting position. He crossed his arm over his ribs, wincing again. They had to be shattered. “I did it, though. I got them out.”

“I know,” Ra’Cha’s lips curled up into a delighted smile. “They’re crossing through Hammerfell right now. They won’t be found. Thank you, I know you risked a lot.” The Bosmer rose, wincing. “You’re going next.”

“What?” Errion looked at her, surprise lighting his face. “What do you mean ‘ _I’m going next_ ’?”

“Luvie is going to kill you,” Ra’Cha’s voice trembled, her eyes were shadowed with fear. “He’s going to rip you apart when he gets the chance. Tomorrow morning, if you’re able, you’re leaving. Headed on the next cart to Markarth, and hopefully further.” She tucked her chestnut strands behind her pointed ear, her gaze still glimmering with grief. “You’re leaving. You have to, Errion.”

“How can I leave?” With a burst of strength, Errion pushed himself to his feet, immediately wobbling. He wrapped his hand around the bedpost, glaring at Ra’Cha. “I can’t just abandon you.”

“You _have_ to,” Ra’Cha put her hands on his forearms, keeping him steady. Her voice was incredibly firm as she repeated herself. “You can’t stay. Errion, you’ve been here for too long; this place is beginning to get to you. You need to get away, and this is your chance.”

“But I can’t leave you in good faith,” Errion argued, his voice breathless. 

“Luvie won’t get rid of me so quickly. I’m useful to him in more ways then one. Whatever he needs . . . I can offer. You can’t.” She cupped Errion’s sore cheeks. “Please, take this gift I offer; _leave_. It’s the only way I can help you. Give yourself the gift of freedom, my friend.”

Errion leaned forward, touching his forehead to hers. Ra’Cha shivered, but didn’t pull away. She was far too kind. “What will he do to you when he finds out that you’re the one orchestrating all of this?” He couldn’t bear to think of what Luvie would do, how he would rip into her.

“He won’t find out,” she whispered. “He won’t find out.”

And boy, were both wrong about how far Luvie’s influences could spread.


	17. tevinter.

Tevinter Mage’s surrounded the Elven duo, blocking all means of escape. 

A bloodied hand gripped the slick pommel of a dagger, but an exhausted body told her wild mind that they had no chance. Even though they were tiring, and there were only two of them, they would put up quite the fight. Their strength would not be able to match the overwhelming numbers of the Tevinter. It had been dangerous coming here to begin with, but both had been more than eager to escape the bright spotlight that King Alistair had pinpointed upon them. His blindness to the truth was condemning them to death.

Elnalé, charged for the murder of the Warden; desecration of her crypt; for the illegal use of Blood Magic. Lialya, charged for being a Demon of the Fade; for possessing the Warden’s ‘deceased’ body. The King had not been willing to listen to reason when they explained that somehow, Elnalé’s magic had been enough to revive Lialya from her death. She had come back with a blank slate, although she had come back with the wounds she sustained from the Archdemon, she had no sign of the Taint within her body. A side - effect, though . . . was the loss of her memories. Lialya had forgotten everything up until the point of where she and Tamlen were still simple Hunter’s, treading around the forest in careful stances and flirting at every chance that they got. 

It took time, and it took a lot of work, but Lialya got her memories back. Though they all had not returned, most of them had indeed made themselves known and she had enough information to fill in the blanks. She had needed time to heal from Alistair’s rejection, to heal from him thinking that she was a damned creature of the Fade, but she had done it. Somehow, she had fought the impossible and returned back to a version similar to her old self.

And, in turn, realized the strength of her feelings for Elnalé.

Lialya reached her free hand behind her, twining her fingers with the other Mage’s. Reassuringly, she gently squeezed her hand, taking care to recline so their shoulders were pressed together. She was comforted by the others presence. At this point, with the life that they’ve lived, she was fine with the way that it was going to end. Though she knew their adopted babies and their two Mabari would miss them terribly, they always had Zevran and Leliana to take care of them. 

“What should we do?” Elnalé pressed, her voice strained. Both were still standing back - to - back, chests heaving and bodies terse. The Tevinter Mage’s were crowding in closer and closer, hustling the two closer to certain death. It would have been worrisome if not for Lialya’s realization that no matter what they did, it ended here.

“There is nothing we can do,” Lialya whispered, lashing out at one of the closest Mage’s. The tip of her dagger barely grazed his arm. “Are you happy with how everything has gone? With the way our end has presented itself?” 

When they had found that Ferelden had been far from safe for them to reside in, they had gone traveling amongst Thedas. They had seen almost every corner of the world, and their family had been upgraded from two to twelve. Ten adopted little Elves, and two sweet, loving Mabari. Zevran and Leliana had been considered their family for a little while, for they had each stayed with them for years upon end at one point in time or another. Their kids were now mentally scarred, but that was beside the point here. 

One of the kids was Lehel’s son. After her twin brothers murder, and then the death of his wife, their young son had no other family to return to. So, Lialya had made a special trip to return to the Sabrae Clan and collected her nephew. He was her life; her only remaining kin, and she loved him with all of her heart. It was going to kill her — literally — to have to leave him and the others behind, but it had to be done. He was older now, he would be able to take care of himself. He didn’t need her like he once did.

“If this is our end, then I wouldn’t mind. I won’t let them do to us what they’ve done to others.” Elnalé’s voice was so firm that it sent shivers down Lialya’s spine. 

The Dalish girl always knew that her life would be stolen at the end of a sword or a bow. She had been okay with that; ever since becoming a Warden, she had been anticipating the end with open arms. This end, with Elnalé by her side, was the best one she could have ever hoped for. 

“Then so be it. We say goodbye here.” Lialya squeezed Elnalé’s hand again, and felt the Mage return the pressure. 

So when their world ended in a flurry of fire, and when the flames singed their skin, Lialya did not cry out. She did not make a single sound until her hand was ripped away from the others, but by then it was too late. Their world ended in a blaze of wild flames, surrounded by those they hated most.

She preferred being burned alive as opposed to falling to Darkspawn, anyway.


	18. letter.

Ma’vhenan,

I know you must be confused, waking up by yourself. I mean, my side of the bed will be cold, and there’ll be no sign that I was ever there. I’m sorry.

I guess I better explain myself, right? Well, my Majesty, I realize that I have made a mistake. I made a giant mistake in letting you go. After the fight with the Archdemon, I had not wanted to let you go, to let you slip from my grasp, but I . . . you had to become King. It was only the right decision. But look at what happened! You lived your life with Anora; you are an amazing King. You’ve done more for Ferelden than I would have ever imagined. I’m proud of you. You’ve come so far from the witty companion that I enjoyed so much life with.

My own life has been spent just as productively, I hope. I mean, I managed to help rebuild the entirety of the Fort ( though it took a long time, seeing as how bad the Darkspawn invasion had been there. ) , and I discovered that the tunnels there were connected to the ones in the Deep Roads.

Remember that? When you caught me from falling off the edge of the road as it crumpled beneath my feet? 

Of course . . . I still remember the day that you came to the Fort, when I conscripted Anders. I hid from you, mostly because I couldn’t bear to face you yet. It was still too soon, still too raw for me to look into your eyes and see my own pain reflected back at me. I’m so glad Anders and Oghren covered for my disappearance, but I couldn’t help but feel guilty. 

Over the years, I found that I could face you. I could look into your eyes and smile, joke about old time and even momentarily forget that we were together. Though those moments were few and far between, I found that my heart could move on. I managed to love Thelven, even though he was a traitor. 

You found the scar he gave me last night. You found that perfect scar, shoved right between my breasts. Even though you had looked at me curiously, asking me for a story, I had to distract you with a kiss. You already knew the story, for after I had recovered, I came to you to share that my life had almost been stolen, but I did not give you details. I don’t know why, but I don’t think I trusted you enough to give you details at that point. At this time, now, I cannot give you any details, for I am gone.

I took care of the threat, I took care of a lot of things. We managed to maintain a wary friendship, knowing that it was better than nothing. We had to give each other something; the Warden Commander and the King of Ferelden had to converse somehow. It was not my favorite way, for I missed our easy conversations, but it was a way all the same. All those times we talked, I found myself slipping back into the frame of mind that told me that I was falling back in love with you. Even though I was the one to split ties, to release you into the world and push you to do your very best, I hated myself for my choice.

Never did I ever want to hurt you so horridly. I wanted to keep you all to myself, let you know that I adored you no matter what, and that my decisions would never hurt us in such a grand way. But after the Archdemon was dead, I had such a large realization; things just became clear to me. In no way shape or form were we supposed to make it to the life that we dreamed of. It killed me to admit it to anyone, even myself, but it was the only way. 

I keep saying that, don’t I? It was the only way, or it was for the best. In my mind, I believe it. 

In this letter, I just wanted to admit to you that I still loved you. My heart still beat for no one other than you. I took other lovers, none as prominent in my life as you. Last night was a gift, in my eyes. One final night to be spent with the man that I wanted to keep in my life forever. I reawakened my love for you to it’s final stance last night. I love you. I love you. I love you.

My King, my majesty, my love. Last night was our last night together forever. I’ve run out of time; I can hear you beginning to stir from the next room, and though I wanted to tell you everything, I cannot. I’ve many tales I wish to bless your ears with but alas, I cannot. 

When you finally awaken for real, I’ll be gone. I came here to say goodbye to Leliana, not get involved with the Inquisitor and the mess that is beginning to unfold. I cannot cling to my life any longer, I hear it. My Calling has come. I feel it burning within me, feel it writhing inside. I’ve ignored it for too long, it’s gotten to the point of where I awaken far from my bed, facing the direction of Orzammar.

I didn’t want to say goodbye to you to your face. I didn’t want to break your heart like that. I did not plan for you to come here, for me to sleep with you again. After I was to say goodbye to Leliana, I was supposed to leave, not spend another night. I’m going to go face the Darkspawn, it’s time for me to go. I’ve spent my time with the Taint wisely, doing the best that I can. I know that I must have failed by your standards, seeing as how we’ve spent so much time apart, but to mine . . . I’ve done wonderfully well.

There’s nothing more I can say here without rambling on. My love, do not follow me to Orzammar. This is my time to go, not yours. Please, take care of yourself. Let yourself love again. It would . . . bring me such joy in the afterlife if you did. I would not be able to explain my joy. 

I love you.

_Lialya Mahariel._


	19. endings?

His sword sliced through another Darkspawn body, casting it back to the ground. She looked like a fish swimming the wrong way upstream; the Darkspawn would part around her, not knowing that she was an enemy until it was too late. She was getting closer and closer to the vantage point, but she was no safer than she was when she was by his side. She was in so much danger out there, but all he could afford to do was cover her. He hoped — no, he _prayed_ that Oghren and Anders were having better luck. They had to have reached the other vantage point by now.

Everywhere he could see, there were Darkspawn. They must have congregated and regrouped within the Deep Roads, and then found their way to the Fort. Lialya had been worried about the tunnels underneath, saying that they should cave them in just in case the Darkspawn found their way, but no one had really been on her side. Most said that they needed the tunnels for an escape route, whilst others said that there were still trinkets down there. But, like always, she was right. The Darkspawn had found their way to the Fort, and were trying their damnest to take over. For four days they had been stuck inside, biding their time, wondering what the fuck they were going to do in order to escape.

It was Lialya’s brilliant idea for the Grey Wardens to force their way to the vantage points and signal for help. Anders magic would shine high in the sky for hours on end; the townspeople would see it as an S.O.S, and eventually come with reinforcements. Lialya would fire flaming arrows into the sky as well, in the direction of the armed base, hoping that they would see the signal. It was a simple enough plan, but the only danger was the Darkspawn in - between. There were thousands of them, more than Alistair ever remembered seeing in a long while.

The entire Fort was illuminated by a vivid, bloody hue. The moon that was typically a reassuring silver had been turned as scarlet as the blood that bathed the Fort, and was full. There were no stars. Clouds were gathering across the dark sky, but clear as day, Alistair could see Anders magic. It was almost like fireworks; an assortment of colors that indicated panic. For a moment, he longed to revel in the beauty of the colors, but his Warden - Commander needed him.

Striding forward, he followed her erratic movements with his worried gaze as she dashed onto the narrow ledge connecting to the tower, Starfang gripped tightly in her grasp and dripping with blood. The Darkspawn howled and clawed at her feet, unable to get at her. She was too quick, throwing herself up onto the vantage point. For a moment, she dangled upon the point, her legs waving uselessly underneath her and fingers dug deeply into the grate. Alistair wanted to run towards her, pull her up as he did in Orzammar to save her from plummeting to her death, but she clearly had a hold over herself.

As easily as if she were climbing a tree, Lialya’s instincts kicked in. Her body began to raise up the grate, arms hauling her forward until she was safe. For a moment, she lay with her forehead resting upon Starfang and breathing heavily, but then she got into motion again.

Starfang was slid back into it’s sheath whilst her nimble fingers ripped out her bow, arrows coming next. It took only moments for the arrows to spring to life, flames crawling up the wood. Her body took on a firm pose as she aimed, pulling the string back and launching the arrows high into the sky. The clouds were illuminated in such a harsh manner, but the flares were up, crying out for help in both directions. 

“Thank the Maker,” Alistair breathed, seeing Lialya’s worry as her gaze scanned the Darkspawn below. She was clearly trying to find her escape route, but there was no way. They were crowding around the vantage point, weapons waving and bodies cracking against the material of the point. If Alistair looked closely enough, he could see cracks beginning to appear within the stones.

“Hey, dumbasses!” Alistair yelled. “After me! C’mon, you know you want me more!”

“Dwarves taste _far_ better than Elves!” Oghren’s voice was loud next to Alistair and he almost jumped. He was glad to see that the Mage and the Dwarf had returned without getting hurt, but also worried. Would they be enough to help distract the Darkspawn?

It seemed that they were. Most of the Darkspawn that were hounding Lialya came running for the trio gathered, and all three barely had enough time to defend themselves. Alistair swung his sword just in time to catch a Genlock in the face, whilst Anders exploded a region of them not too - far away. Oghren was screeching like a banshee and chasing a few down, but there were far too many for them all to comfortably fight. Even in such close quarters, they would not be enough to protect themselves. 

“Lialya, watch out —!”

Alistair’s shrieked warning came too late.

Out of the corner of his gaze, he had seen the strangest of creatures prowling on the ledge. It was large, and it almost reminded him of a wolf, but it was far larger. It’s pelt was spiked and seemed to be barbed, and it’s paws had talons. It’s tail was lashing back and forth, it’s dangerous gaze locked right upon Lialya.

From off the ledge it sprang, paws outstretched and claws reaching for her slender body. She turned a second far too late, a screech ripping from her lips. Both she and the creature fell over the the vantage point, right into the sea of Darkspawn. 

“ _LIALYA_!” Alistair yelled, barely being able to refrain from throwing himself after her. He knew she could handle herself, but this — this was too much. There were too many Darkspawn around, and with that . . . that _thing_ ready to rip her apart, she had no chance.

But again, his Warden managed to surprise him. One blood - soaked arm rose from the mass, and then her head popped up. Her mouth was wide open, eyes scrunched shut and blood everywhere. Her other arm appeared, and she pulled herself out of the mass, managing to get to a point in which she could rest for a moment. From this distance, he could see her chest rising and falling rapidly. There was no part of her that wasn’t covered in blood. Her struggle wasn’t over yet, albeit; she had lost her arrows, left only with her bow and a blood - soaked Starfang. She seemed to have endless energy, for as soon as the Darkspawn were on her again, she was slashing and stabbing, mouth bared in one of the most vicious snarls he had seen on her since the Blight.

“I’ve got her,” a breathy voice hummed near Alistair. It was Anders. The Mage had his hands locked above his head, power beginning to bud between his palms. His eyes were as cold as stones. 

“What if you hit her?” Alistair shrieked over the loud noise. The wind had really picked up in the last few minutes, and the sounds of the lashing rain was almost too much to bear. 

“I won’t.” Anders voice was deadly serious. “It won’t effect her in the slightest. Cover your eyes.”

Instinctively, Alistair put his arm up over his eyes, shielding them from the bright light that suddenly dominated the dark sky. He could see the lights out of the corner of his gaze, and when he dared pull his arm down, Anders snapped at him to put it back, and so he did. 

“It’s fine now, you won’t burn your eyes out.” Anders’ voice was silky with arrogance. Alistair, once his arm was down, shot him a nasty glance, but returned his attention back to Lialya all the same. His dear Warden was closer now, and the Darkspawn that had been unable to leave her alone were gone. Whether Anders turned them to smithereens, or whether he transported them elsewhere, his love was safe. _Ish_.

“Go get her,” Anders voice again is deadly serious. “She won’t be able to walk on her own. Her strength is failing fast.” 

Sheathing his weapons, Alistair hurried out along the narrow ledge to her, watching as her familiar azure gaze lit up with love. He managed to slide his arms around her just in time, his hand darting out to snag Starfang before it could clatter to the ground. Her weight, usually light against him, was now heavy. She slumped immediately into his shoulder, unable to hold herself up. 

“Get me inside,” she hissed, her voice sharp. “ _Inside_.”

Jerking his head to Anders and Oghren, the Wardens hobbled back through the cast - iron door that Anders had spelled shut. Oghren was able to keep the Darkspawn off of them until they got inside, and then things were eerily silent. 

“To the dining hall, to the dining hall,” Lialya was saying, her voice barely a whisper. Her head was lolling on her shoulders, and with every little movement, blood sloshed out onto the stone flooring. The dimly lit torches weren’t enough to illuminate the halls, so for a good five minutes they were walking in complete darkness. All Alistair could hear was their footsteps, Lilaya’s weak breaths, and Oghren and Anders behind them. 

When they burst through the heavy door, all eyes were turned onto them. Lialya unceremoniously slumped to the floor, Alistair going with her. Starfang clattered from his grip. 

“Put pressure on that wound,” Anders directed. ”I’m going to find a healer.” 

Now that Alistair could see her better, he saw the wound. He almost vomited when he saw how bad it was. The creature that had bowled her over had bitten a chunk right out of her side, leaving her hipbone and her ribs exposed. It hadn’t bitten down so deep that her organs were exposed or torn out, but it had taken a good chunk of muscle and flesh. How the hell was he going to be able to stop that bleeding? Already there was a pool beginning to spread on the stones, the pool lapping at his knees.

“Help me up, Alistair,” the Warden commanded. Her eyes had fluttered open, the azure looking stark surrounded by the scarlet. The rain had washed most of the blood, gunk and gore off of her, but there was still a considerable amount left. “Get me up.”

Not knowing how to respond, Alistair obeyed. He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her to her feet. Blood sloshed out again. She wavered, but she still remained standing. 

“Men,” her voice was loud as she addressed everyone in the dining hall. They had been waiting for the four to come back from their seemingly hopeless journey outside, and now were waiting for more commands.

“Women, everyone that have come here seeking refuge, work, or even a home; we did it. The Wardens again managed to prevail.” She broke off with a violent cough. “We got a signal out to the outside, and now, we must wait for a response back. It has been my . . . pleasure leading you all. I have adored every second I have spent at this Fort, and now I know what it truly means to be a leader. If things do no go our way, the way we had been hoping it would, I want you all to know that I am proud. I am proud of your efforts, your dedication to protect each other and the people of Thedas. The Darkspawn out there will eventually come inside, and even if it kills all of us to take them down, you’ll be rewarded in the afterlife. You’ll have done something right, protected your people and your families. If help does not come, then we will all die here — together, as Wardens!” This time, when she coughed, blood came with. 

“As your Commander, as your leader, as your friend . . . I am proud.” 

Lialya’s legs gave out a second time, and this time, she brought Alistair down with her.


	20. simulations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finished saints row for the 238470398742308240th time & idk i feel like zinyak would have fucked with the simulation more ?? i tried to write a thing appropriate enough for that but idk 
> 
> also i'm really in love with my boss like gosh damn u douche why are u like this

_“Get me the fuck out of this thing!”_ A very distressed and a very stressed voice belonging to Léon filters through the HUB.  _“The doors are fucking locked; I can’t get through. Kinzie, Matt, what are you doing?”_

“Hold tight for a second,” Kinzie nervously replies, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she struggled with the simulation. “Zinyak took control; he’s shutting down every aspect we once had and he’s trying to cut you off from us! Try this next door.” 

A noise that sounded like Léon growling in annoyance came through, and then he was off again. Looking back at Léon’s body to make sure that his vitals were still good, Kinzie left the control to Matt for a moment, eyes narrowing as she saw the drop. It was a slow one, hardly noticeable, but it was gradual enough to strike worry in her. Everything was beginning to go down; if he didn’t get pulled out soon, then he was going to die in there. 

“Did you get hurt?” Kinzie went back over to their side of the com, sharing an uneasy look with Matt. 

Silence.  _“Uh . . . it’s possible? I mean, it seemed like it was healing, but now that you bring it up I now realize that it’s not. What the fuck is going on? Is Zinyak taking over what little control we did have?”_

“That’s what it seems like.” Matt was furiously typing something. “Hold on, I’m going to try and create a new doorway and block any connection from Zinyak. Can you get to the west end of Steelport?” 

_“I can fucking try. My powers are starting to run low. I might not make it.”_

“Then I’ll try to get one closer to your location Keep moving, don’t stay still!” Even Matt was beginning to sound stressed, and he usually had better control in these situations than Kinzie did. Things were going wrong, and  _fast_. How did Zinyak figure out that they were moving against him again so soon? It seemed as if he was finally done entertaining the idea of the Saints little ‘rebellion’ and putting an end to it once and for all. Luckily, only Léon was in the simulation at the time, which meant that they only had to focus on getting him out. The only problem was that Zinyak’s connections were overriding theirs, and undoing the meticulous work that Kinzie and Matt had done over the months. It seemed he finally felt threatened by what the Saints could do, and was no longer willing to risk them getting any closer into destroying him.

 _“Hey, guys?”_ Léon had the grace to sound nervous.  _“Erm, remember how I said the Wardens were all wiped out? Yeah, well, that door you created now has three of them guarding it. What do I do?”_

“Don’t risk it, just run. We’ll have to figure something else out.” Kinzie slid up the com again, finding that she was running low on ideas. “Keep yourself safe, Léon, don’t let that wound get any worse or else your actual body will die. You need to —” 

_“Yeah, yeah, I know; be careful. I’m gonna hi —”_

Léon’s words completely cut out. There was silence on the other end of the HUB, almost as if their connection had been cut by something none of them could have foreseen. Hesitating, Kinzie stared at the speaker, her mouth agape. 

“Léon?” She tried, her voice rasping.

There was no response. 

“Zinyak cut the HUB connection, and he’s cutting Léon’s powers, too; see this little meter?” Matt beckoned Kinzie closer, and showed her a small bar that was steadily beginning to go down. “How brilliant! He’s trying to isolate Léon, strip him of his powers, and then let whatever is in the simulation kill him.” The entire screen suddenly went black. Kinzie and Matt could see themselves in the reflection of the dark screen, both looking in surprise when Zinyak’s logo appeared as it began to revive itself. 

“Guys, get in here!” Kinzie yelled, not seeing Matt flinch. 

“What’s going on?” Shaundi was the first to come in, Johnny following close behind. Keith, Ben, Asha and CID were coming through next, last of all came Pierce. Somehow managing to squeeze them all around the screen, they all watched the screen in grim anticipation. The screen began to lighten and Zinyak’s face was outlined against the darkness, his gaze looking triumphant. 

 _“Well, well, well,”_  he drawled, his voice filling the room.  _“Looks like I win. Your friend is stuck in there with nothing to help him escape. Do you really have faith that he’ll survive?”_

“Always,” Johnny spat, shoving Kinzie aside and getting up close to the screen. “You obviously haven’t learned anything if you think that something like  _this_ can get the damned  _Boss_ down. The Saints always come through, Zinyak.” 

The alien overlord didn’t look surprised at Johnny’s outburst.  _“We’ll just have to see about that,”_  he murmured.  _“If Léon somehow does survive, I’ll admit, I would have underestimated you humans. If he doesn’t . . . your ship is mine. I’ve had enough of this, to be quite frank. Kinzie, I thought you would have been smarter than this; your redirections were surprisingly easy to override.”_

“I’ll just have to work harder to turn your simulation against you, then.” Kinzie glared, fighting to control her temper. “Good _bye_ , Zinyak.” Mashing the button a bit harder than she intended, the screen went black again, and Zinyak disappeared. 

“Send me in the simulation.” Johnny demanded immediately, heading for one of the placeholders. “If the Boss is in that much danger, I ain’t just standin’ by.” 

“Me too,” Shaundi fixed her hair as she walked closer to Johnny. 

“Well, if you two are going, then so am I!” Pierce declared, standing by Shaundi and Johnny. “Us three will take care of him, Kinzie.” 

“ _No_ ,” Kinzie bent over one of the computers. “Our connection to the simulation has been severed. The only one that’s still running properly is Léon’s because it’s in use, but look at it; his body is starting to die.” 

Shaundi, almost curiously, went over to where Léon was strapped down. His eyes were rolling rapidly behind his eyelids, and his chest was heaving. His face and his fingers would twitch, and there was blood leaking through his suit. A growing scarlet stain against the slate gray material, not large enough to warrant concern but enough to warrant someone to keep their eye on him to ensure that it doesn’t get larger. 

“His blood pressure is high, his heart rate is high, and his brain waves are incredible. They read nothing but panic. I don’t know how much blood he’s losing in that simulation, but it isn’t good. If anyone can survive this, it’s definitely Léon. We just have to work on something else to help him.” 

“Like what?” Johnny growled. His hands were locked behind his back and he was pacing. 

“Something that matches a Warden in strength,” CID’s mechanical voice startled Kinzie. She had forgotten that he was in there. “Something that Matt or Kinzie can code in, and that will protect Léon while we get the simulation back under Saint control. This is one of the only options that I can see.” 

“You know,” Asha murmured, “that makes sense. If we get something like that to be on his side, and somehow block it from Zinyak’s control, it buys us  _and_ Léon time.” 

“They’re right. What a brilliant idea!” Matt was immediately bent over the keyboard, typing away. “I’ve got the perfect thing in mind. What was that creature again that was in Pierce’s nightmare?” 

“Paul, the Saints Flow giant?” Keith put in. 

“He would work.” Hope began to fill Kinzie again. “Matt, you work on getting Paul up and running; I’ll protect the coding and twist it so Zinyak can’t override it. Can you do that?” 

“You’re actually asking for my help?” Matt looked up from his keyboard, looking touched. He quickly shook himself out of it. “Of course I can! While I’m at it, I’m going to look for Léon and try to reestablish a connection to him so we can reconnect the HUB.” 

“Everyone else, go reinforce the ship and get weapons ready; I have a feeling we’re going to get a Zin attack sometime in the near future. Johnny, you stay; I’m going to need you to talk the Boss down if he’s in a panic. Let’s go people! This isn’t something we can afford to screw up on, it’s life or death here!”

* * *

 One hand rested over the gaping hole in the chest whilst the other braced himself against the window ledge, chest rising and falling rapidly. Blood was steadily pumping against his palm, and though he knew that the Wardens and the Zin could not track him by his blood, he found himself trying not to spill it on anything just in case. 

The HUB connection was gone. His powers were dying off, and he was alone in the fucking simulation with nothing to help him. None of his guns were accessible, and though he wished that Kinzie and Matt would perform some fucking miracle and get him out of here alive, he knew that it wasn’t going to happen as smoothly as that. 

Not willing to stay still for fear of the Zin showing up, Léon hauled himself off of the ledge and swung to the next, making a disturbing noise that sounded like a mixture of a gasp and a grunt. He had survived gun shots, explosions, merciless beat downs, drug overdoses, being stabbed and so many other things — why should a fucking hole in his chest slow him the fuck down? He was the President of the United States for fucks sake; he could do anything! 

Gritting his teeth, Léon swung to another one, forcing himself to haul up onto the rooftop. His legs were trembling, and his vision was beginning to narrow to pinholes. He could do this; he could  _fucking do this_. 

“Don’t be a pussy now, Léon,” he muttered to himself, inhaling deeply. Without any more hesitation, he began running across the rooftop and threw himself off the side of the ledge, his heart stopping as he dangled in midair, and then crashed down heavily upon the opposite ledge. It forced a winded sound through his bleeding lips, and the remainder of his strength was spent on climbing over the ledge and flopping down on the opposite rooftop. A warm heat spread underneath him, making his dress shirt stick to his skin. He was slowly, but steadily, bleeding out. 

“C’mon, Léon, you’ve had worse!” He growled at himself, pushing one hand underneath him in order to rise to a sitting position. It was at times like this where he really missed his rapid heal, his super jump and sprint, and overall the powers that the simulation had given him. What game was Zinyak fucking playing at? 

“Pussy, you fucking  _pussy_ , get off the fucking rooftop! Keep moving. If you want to survive, if you want to bury your face in some whores’ tits again, you’ll fucking  _move_. Pain doesn’t bother you, remember? Get the fuck up,  _get the fuck up_.” His voice grew strained, and his arms shook as he managed to sit upright. His head spun, and his stomach roiled. “You’re not weak, you’re one of the baddest motherfuckers out there! Saints don’t die this easily!” His teeth ground together and his legs trembled dangerously, but he was beginning to stand. Funny how harsh motivation can really get your blood pumping, huh? 

“Good boy, just take a step,” he convinced himself. One small step forward was taken, and Léon’s legs almost gave out. “And another. And another. Keep going; you’ve got friends on the outside, people to protect, a planet to avenge. C’mon, don’t you want to get laid one last time before you die? Don’t you want to shove Zinyak’s face in his own ass to show him that you’re better than him? Fucking  _survive_ , Léon! Get out of this!” 

There was no fucking way he was going to make another roof jump, and there was no way he was going to be able to use the streets. Normal people were turning into Zin; if anyone caught a good look at his beaten face, they’d know immediately that he was whom they were looking for. Nor could he hide out on this rooftop forever. Zin ships would eventually hone in on him and kill him. He was fucked no matter what way he looked at it. 

“Fuck me, I’m going to have to jump again.” Measuring the distance with his eyes, he figured that it was a shorter one than before; he had a higher chance at making it across without injury. That rooftop was also the rooftop to a pet shelter, surprisingly enough. If he had any luck on his side left, then they’d have medical supplies in there. Supplies that could very well stich Léon’s chest up and give him a higher chance at surviving. 

“ _Fuck_.”

Closing his eyes tightly, Léon took a steading breath and didn’t give himself a chance to think about what would happen if he misjudged and went  _splat_ upon the ground. Instead, he didn’t think as he threw himself across the gap, using the last of his powers to ensure that he did get across. He landed with a heavy  _thump_ , rolling across the hard surface. His dislocated shoulder flared with pain, and his face screwed up — teeth biting into his tongue to refrain from yelling obscenities — until he began to calm down enough to find the strength, and the will, to stand. 

In a shuffling gait complete with blood dripping off of his soaked shirt, Léon forced open the rooftop door, unsure as to how he managed to get down the long flights of stairs without tripping over his own feet. It was more of a struggle to get the supply room door open, but once he did, he thanked whatever God there was above that there was in fact medical supplies that he could use.

Stitching up the gaping hole in the front of his chest was a challenge, but somehow he managed it. Rather than screw his shoulder up more by attempting to stitch the one on his back, he patched it instead, knowing that someone was going to have to get to it later lest he wished to bleed out. HIs second challenge was shoving his dislocated shoulder back into place, which  _definitely_ hurt like a bitch, but somehow he managed without passing out. His shirt was torn to hell and unwearable again, so he opted for a white wifebeater tank that just happened to be lying around, aware that it was making him more vulnerable to injury. Something bad was happening to the Saints control on the simulation, and he didn’t know how they were going to fix it. For now, he was going to have to survive until Kinzie and Matt regained control over their domain. 

It was unfortunate that Zinyak booted their control whilst he was in a Zin controlled area. If he had been in a Saint controlled area, he would have had a better chance at surviving without deadly injury. But luck was fickle for him today, and he was suffering because of it. Too bad. This simulation was beginning to seem like a second home to him, but now all he fucking wanted was  _out_.

“Kinzie, Matt . . . hurry up. I don’t know how much longer I can survive this shit.” 

He spent ten more minutes inside, mostly searching for any weapon that could possibly aid him against the Zin. All he found was a pistol with limited ammo, and though it was measly compared to the guns he was used to, he was in no position to complain. Storing it in his waistband and making sure that the safety was on, Léon made his up mind and went outside onto the sidewalk, finding that he felt significantly more sure of himself and stronger now that the bleeding was patched up. 

Oh, he knew he was a mess. There were bruises everywhere, and one of his eyes was swollen to the point of where he could hardly see out of it, and he had small scrapes and cuts all over his arms and his face — but at this point why should he complain? The Goddamn hole in his chest was mostly patched up and his bleeding was temporarily staunched. He had done what he was good at; bought himself some time. 

Angling his head down so no one could get a good look at him and pull a fucking Matrix move and shift into Zin out of nowhere, Léon quickened his pace to a Saints cache that he had forgotten was in this area. Kinzie had placed it in case any of them were stranded and needed some otherworldly aid, and Léon was full well going to take advantage of it. His odds at survival were beginning to increase and right now he could find nothing to complain about. Things were going the right way for once. 

A sudden Earth - trembling footstep made Léon stop in his tracks, albeit. Fearing that Zinyak had found a way to make a Lady Liberty sized monster to track him down and squeeze him to death, the Boss froze in the streets, looking in the direction that the noise and tremors had come from. Ready to start booking it to the cache, he found that he didn’t need to, for the fucking head that was beginning to rise over the crest of the hill was one all too familiar to him.

“Paul!” Léon cried, throwing his arms out and ignoring the computerized people in the simulation as they ran away. “Buddy, hey! Come here and pick me up!” All hope was not lost after all. This had to be something Kinzie and Matt dreamed up.

As if the Saints Flow monster could understand him, he lumbered towards Léon, making the ground tremble with each massive step. When he was close enough he extended a hand, and Léon scrambled up into his palm. Paul, taking Léon’s size into consideration, slowly rose him up so he could sit comfortably on Paul’s top. They were attracting Zin attention again, but Paul was more than able to take them on without Léon’s help.

 _“— and his stupid . . . oh. It finally went through, did it Léon? Hahaha, ignore whatever you just heard.”_ Matt’s voice came out of nowhere, nearly startling the Boss.

“Woah, did you guys get control back?” Léon wrapped his hands around the lip of Paul’s can head, being careful to keep himself in place. “Are we all good?” 

 _“We’re slowly beginning to take back control of the simulation. Zinyak is furious; he’s trying to fight us but we’ve got such a lockdown on what was going on now that he can’t match us. Hold on to Paul and we’ll get you out of there soon enough. It’s going to take time to bring things back to the way they were before.”_ Kinzie sounded distracted and distant. 

“I don’t care about making things the way they were before; just bring me out, and then we’ll talk and figure that shit out. I can’t stay in here longer than I really need to. I’m really at risk here, guys.” 

 _“You’ve done well for yourself so far,”_ Matt observed. Léon could hear typing in the background.  _“Hold on another moment. Disconnecting the HUB so we can get a better read of your vitals again.”_

The line went silent again. Internally, Léon groaned; it was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lied i hate him i hate léon so much hes sUCH A DOUCHE BAG


	21. what could have been, if we were fortunate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt; we were in the right place at the right time, & we have met. 
> 
> unfortunately, these two siblings do n o t have that much luck on their side to reunite.

“ _Nelyn_ ,” Errion’s voice had an edge of worry to it. The Altmer was watching as his boyfriend got farther and farther away, but he could not follow. The sword at his throat would make things incredibly awkward if he were to start moving. “I’ve run into a spot of trouble.”

“What?” Nelyn turned, his eyes widening when he saw the city guard keeping Errion pinned to the wall with nothing but the point of his steel sword. The cool metal was starting to bite into his skin, and prickles of pain shot from the entry wound. A trickle of blood ran down his skin, but Errion did not voice a complaint.

“I believe . . . we are being arrested.” 

The guard grunted. “Her Majesty requests that you both be stopped before you could leave the city. You’re both in a _lot_ of trouble.” 

“What crimes did we commit?” Nelyn asked icily. His suspicion was palpable. Errion could feel it radiating off of him in waves. He had still not made a move towards any of the weapons he had hidden on him, and for that Errion was glad. He would prefer not to have his throat slit on his damned nameday.

“Treason.” The guard growled. “The Queen herself pinned you both as traitors to the crown, and to the Isles. You’re both going to rot in her prison for the rest of your damn lives.” 

“That is _enough_!” An authoritative female voice was as sharp as a whip. “Step away from that man. He is one of us. Do you not see the shade of his skin? The point to his ears? Do you not _feel_ that his blood is similar to your own? You should be ashamed.” Her voice took on a tone of a scolding mother. “Remind me to speak to your captain before this day is over. Threatening my kin, oh! That is a crime.” 

Heels clicked loudly upon the stones as the woman drew forward, the skirts of her dress tucked up within her hands. The first thing Errion noticed about her was the swelling to her stomach. This woman was breathless, most likely because she had ran after the group yet was weighed down by the growing babe in her stomach. She was a pretty woman, an Altmer of course. Errion could _swear_ that he had seen her somewhere before; her ringlets were lazy and a soft honeyed brown, and her eyes were the color of amber when sunlight hit it directly. Her lips were plush, but the bottom one was swollen in one place. If Errion had not had history with abuse, he would have simply presumed that it was a bruise form a passionate kiss. But that was a strike from a hand. He would have known that anywhere. 

“Go on, go!” The woman waved her hand at the guard. “I dismiss you from my presence. Go back to your duty before I report you to your captain.” 

“As you wish, my Queen.” The guard bowed deeply, his voice sullen, before abruptly turning and stalking off. He was displeased, clearly, but the Queen didn’t look any happier. 

“Your Grace,” Nelyn inclined his head, and Errion followed suit. This woman was bugging him . . . how could he find every part of her familiar, but not know her name? It was at the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn’t figure it out. 

“Please, Ramoran,” she moved both of her hands upwards as a gesture for them both to rise, “I do not need you to bow. My Lord, _you_ grace _me_ with your presence.” The Queen offered him the kindest of smiles. “Please, forgive my guard for his rough treatment. The Isles have . . . had some troubles in the most recent years.” 

“So I’ve heard,” Nelyn snorted. He was snarky, but he still was giving this woman respect. 

_Odd, I’ve never seen Nelyn bow to someone before, not even to Jarl’s in Skyrim. Should I be talking, or even trying to treat her with the same respect?_ Errion wondered, brushing the blood off of his neck. It was warm as it spread across his skin. _No, I did not grow up a Lord. I fear I would simply offend her and she would remove my head! I should keep my mouth shut and let Nelyn speak._

“You have been silent,” the woman observed in her gentle voice, her gaze catching his. It was so familiar . . . “Have you no words? I know you can speak.” The way she spoke to him was tender, almost as if she knew him. Maybe she thought she did; maybe the heat of the Isles was confusing her. Perhaps she thought he was someone else.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Errion dipped his head. “I am simply exhausted from our travels. It is an honor to be in your presence.” 

“You don’t remember me,” she observed. A smile toyed at the corners of her lips. “Surely you remember the tales I told you of dragons? How I was bit by one?” The woman was rolling up the left sleeve of her dress, treating the laced fabric carefully. Her soft skin hued with gold was revealed, complete with a bite - scar that wrapped around her elbow. Easily hidden, but stark when revealed. “I remember I held you within the warm circle of my arms as I told you that I was bitten by a dragon, and your face lit up . . . but then you began to cry, telling me that you didn’t want the dragon’s bite to take me away from you, that if it did, then you would go slay that dragon yourself. Come now, Errion, has it been so long that you’ve forgotten your sisters face?”

Squinting, Errion studied her a bit closer now. The fine edge to her sharp cheekbones, the gentle way her lips naturally pursed, the flicker of her eyelashes as she casted her gaze around, the long lazy curls that were swept together at her waist, the sweet wink that she dropped when it began to dawn upon him.

“ _Calna_?” Errion gasped, his eyes immediately pricking with tears. “You . . . you’re supposed to be dead!” 

“And so are you, little brother.” She swept forward in a fluid motion, wrapping her arms around him. Hesitantly, and unwilling to hurt her, he remained still. Calna’s sweet scent of summer roses and violets was strong, so strong that it made Errion’s eyes sting. But he wouldn’t have it any other way. This was his elder sister, alive and breathing, holding him and talking to him! Her pregnant stomach was a bit of a bumper between the two of them, yet he still wrapped his arms tightly around her, tucking his face into her hair as he had when he was young. He was taller than her now and not to mention presumably stronger, but tucked up against her like this, he felt frail and small. For a moment, he could pretend he was seven years old again, hugging Calna before she ran off to her lessons.

“You’re pregnant.” Was all he could think to say when he pulled away from her, withdrawing his hands. 

Calna nodded, her curls bouncing. “Yes,” she murmured, resting her hand on her swollen stomach. “I am. This is my fifth; I can tell that it is going to be a boy.” 

“How so?” 

“How her stomach hangs.” Nelyn interjected. “I would have thought that a wondrous healer and alchemist like you would have known how to tell what the sex of a child would be.” He drawled, and Errion shot him a look.

“I never claimed to be able to tell,” he defended himself. “I’m glad that you’re happy.” 

Upon closer inspection of his sister, he could tell that she was not. There were finger - sized bruises underneath her jaw, kept in shadow. But they were yellowing against her skin, showing their age. Someone must have grabbed her by the throat hard enough to leave deep indents on her flesh. She had the beginnings of dark circles curving underneath her eyes, indicating lack of sleep. The hand on her stomach seemed possessive, and her fingers ran over the fabric of her dress multiple times, almost as if she was trying to remind herself that she _was_ pregnant. 

“Listen to me,” Calna dropped her voice after she casted her gaze around. “Please, you must leave the Summerset Isles!” 

“ _What_?” Errion gaped. “No! I just got here, and I want to meet your children —”

“You have come to a dangerous place.” Calna looked at Nelyn. “Do you understand that? You both are in a lot of danger. Nelyn, because you’re a Ramoran, and Errion because you’re the sole heir of House Thilinaine. Do you know what they will do to you? There’s no time to explain this. Please, take the next boat back to wherever you’re calling home. Please, leave now. The Thalmor presence is very strong here, and they will not be keen on letting you slip through their fingers.” 

Nelyn liked horrified. “We must leave _immediately_.” He urged, grabbing Errion by the crook of his elbow. “C’mon, if she says it’s this dangerous . . .” 

_He’s trying not to freak out,_ he realized. _He’s just as scared as she is. Have we truly come to such a dangerous place?_  

“They’ll rip you _apart_.” Her soft hands cupped his cheeks. Errion’s tongue felt like it was too big for his mouth, and he closed his eyes, struggling to think. Why was a fog coming over him _now_? He wanted to say so much to her, and yet he couldn’t seem to think of a single word. “I know this has been short, and I know you yearn for more. Please, for the love you bear me, go home. You have risked enough by coming back here, and if you try and contact me through letters — they will track you down. Never come back; don’t contact me, and try and lay low. Please. You are the sole hope for our House.” Her hands were tight on his cheeks. He felt as if he were saying goodbye to a piece of him that he didn’t know he had. 

“I . . . okay.” Errion nodded. 

“No goodbyes,” Calna whispered. “We don’t say goodbye, we only wish for the best. I wish you both much luck in your endeavors, my little brother. You are one lucky Thilinaine.” 

“And you are one lucky High Queen.” He managed to find his voice. “We will meet again, won’t we?” 

Calna’s smile was sad. Her silence served as the only answer he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lil backstory; after an unspeakable event that left house thilinaine in shatters, the sole heir of house thilinaine was sold off into an underground slave company and sent to live in skyrim, whereas his elder sister was send off back to the remains of house thilinaine in the isles. she was married to the high king there, & endured much. 
> 
> both thought that their sibling was dead, and in this, find out that they're not!! 
> 
> in the actual thing though calna finds out way too late that her little brother is alive, and after the thalmor knock the monarchy out of control, she goes looking for him, only to find that he's already dead. 
> 
> whoopsies ,,


	22. asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt; the things i said whilst i thought you were asleep.

The tent was quiet. There was no noise aside from the gentle sounds of Nelyn’s breathing mixed with Errion’s own. There was no more lewd noises of lips pulling apart, of gasps and muffled moans, no more pleas for more and desperation to not part. That part of the night had indeed died down; to be tucked away and reflected upon at a later date. 

But for some reason, Errion couldn’t sleep. For hours he had laid beside the sleeping Dunmer, idly trailing his fingers up and down the now - dry skin of the arm farthest from him, looking upon the transparent ceiling and admiring the stars. Still, he could not believe that he had been lucky enough to find himself in bed with the stingiest Mer alive, who kept everyone at arms length and rejected any real attempts at friendship. This man was his, and the way he was tucked up in Errion’s one - armed grasp said it. 

He was awake not because he was unsatisfied, for he was. There was a sweet, familiar ache already beginning to settle in, and he found himself reflecting on everything. How it had all started, how close they had become and how Errion found himself not wanting to separate from Nelyn at any given point. He was attached, but he knew that . . . he knew that speaking such emotions aloud would only startle Nelyn away.

Yet, here he lay awake, needing to speak his words somewhere, but being unable to write a single word. He didn’t want to wake Nelyn by reaching for the leather - bound book and his quill, and he couldn’t stand just thinking. No, he had to speak out loud, albeit quietly, but out loud all the same. 

Checking one last time to see that Nelyn was still asleep and taking a moment to admire the rare expression of peace upon his hardened features. Gently, he reached up with his free hand to gently draw his thumb down the corner of his mouth, letting his hand fall flat on Nelyn’s chest, fingers splayed against his skin as he gathered his thoughts.

In a low voice, one hardly louder than a murmur, he spoke.

“I know I’ve no right coming into your life and demanding for more than you’re ready to give, believe me, I know that. You’re not ready for that, and frankly, neither am I. I don’t know what to do about my feelings for you, how I’ve come to truly love you. I thought I knew what it felt like to be loved with Taawen, but that was not love. That was a desperation to find comfort, companionship in another, and I regret how I hurt her. Hurting her was my last intention and I . . . still did it because I knew no other way.

I’ve never been granted the luck to make friends. I’m awkward and nervous, I fumble over my words and I come off as overly - friendly, a bit desperate, even. I didn’t want to get involved with you before. I didn’t want to have things go wrong and backfire, thus making things extraordinarily awkward for the rest of the group. I know if something had happened, I would have found an excuse to leave, and I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to leave the only place I presumed I had found a second family, a place where I could truly be myself.

And you were relentless. You saw something you wanted and you took it, and I couldn’t find the words to tell you no. I couldn’t find the words to tell you to stop before I found myself not falling, but being catapulted over the edge, unable to stop myself from falling in love with you. I haven’t even spoken these words out loud. I’ve only written them on paper and thought them, but I would never speak them. Not to you, no. 

I fear it’s too late to crush down any emotion that I feel towards you. I’ve come to adore almost every aspect of you; I love the way you flush when I say something out - of - character, I love the way you laugh when I try and make an awkward joke, and I love the way you look at me when you think no one is looking. I love how you take it upon yourself to wash my hair, how you run your lips along my scars, how you speak in Dunmeris, how you seem to touch me with more than your hands. I love how you let me see your vulnerable side, and I love how you let me in — how you let me know how your father ruined you.”

The hand that had been running along Nelyn’s arm stopped, and after a moment of silence, it begins it’s gentle path again.

“And I don’t care how ruined you are. I don’t care how you think see yourself, because that doesn’t matter anymore. Even if I have to sit on this for the rest of my life, just be something that you use and throw away at any point, I swear to any God or Daedra listening that I will be that just for you. I can be anything you need; something to fuck, something to touch, something to confide in and trust, and maybe not a sword — that might end badly — but I can damn well try. 

All of it because I believe — _no_ , Gods be damned I love you. No matter what it takes, I will fix you with every broken part of me, and if you so choose to leave then I can live. I can live knowing that I gave you everything and at least helped in some way or another. I don’t care if you never love me, if I’m just someone that you’ll forget. I love you, and I love you enough to respect any decision that you make. 

I just . . . I can’t help but hold out the hope that something might change, where you might realize that somewhere you feel something more than lust towards me. But I’m not asking, I will never ask. I feel no pity for myself because I know I have chosen to live this way, that I have done this to myself. 

Honestly, all I can stand to feel in this moment is my love for you, and I think that is enough to keep me satisfied.” 

Finding that no more words would come and a certain drowsiness was beginning to take over him, Errion shifted so that he was in a more comfortable position, both arms now wrapped around the narrow Dunmer. He only had an hour or so left to catch up on rest before the camp started to wake, but it didn’t matter to him. He had gotten his chance to vent, his chance to say things he never thought he’d say.

And for that, he was now content, ready to never speak of the words he had spoken again.


	23. caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> modern ! au where the thilinaine family is happy and has a bunch of siblings and they're all so close and happy with one another and where the gays can just be gay together without too much fear
> 
> also known as the au that is probably gonna turn sour at some point

As cliché as it was, the light in the kitchen turned on just as Errion was reaching for his car keys. Of course it did! The first time he was sneaking out in a long time, and he already was caught. 

Vinntur was sitting on the counter, the neck of a whiskey bottle clutched loosely in his hands. His long legs were draped across the marble, one resting atop the other. He was wearing his old set of batman pajamas, but he had on a white wife - beater tank top to accommodate the heat. One dark eyebrow was quirked inquisitively at Errion, an unspoken question passing between the two of them. With a mocking sigh, he set the bottle down on the counter, unable to help the smile that furled across his lips.

“Sneaking out, are we?” 

Casually, Errion slid his keys into his back pocket, clasping his hands together at the small of his back whilst he was at it. “Possibly,” he said slowly. “Would you be upset if I were?” 

His brother snorted. “Uh, have you met me? I’m the one that encouraged you start being sexually active, and I helped you sneak out the first night that you did. I want you to have the most in life.” Affection leaked through Vinntur’s voice. “Who is the girl?” 

Errion barked out a laugh. “Girl?” He echoed. “There is no girl.” 

“C’mon, kid, _please_ tell me you’re not sneaking out with condoms in your back pocket just to go pick up some late - night coffee or some shit. You’re going out to see some girl. Cough her name up and I’ll let you go with minimal fight.” 

Frowning, Errion touched the pocket his condoms were in, unable to help the flush that took over his face. Nervous laughter peeled from his lip, causing him to scrub the pads of his fingers across the scruff lining his jaw. Did he dare tell his brother about his relationship with Nelyn? Well, what could it hurt? Vinntur never wanted to cause him any harm, and he’d never out either of them to get back at Errion for something that he might do in the future. It wasn’t like Vinntur was going to shout their relationship from the rooftops, either; he respected Errion’s choices to keep his personal life out of the papers.

“Nelyn Ramoran.” The name slipped past his lips like a whisper, catching in his throat. “I’m going to go have sex with Nelyn Ramoran.” 

What came from Vinntur was a mixture of a laugh and a snort. His head hit the cabinet as he threw it back, practically howling. When his laughter subsided to strangled gasps and snorts, with Errion waiting patiently for him to get over this fit, Vinntur finally managed to get himself under control. His brother, with tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, swallowed back another chortle that rose in his throat. 

“Okay, you’re banging Nelyn Ramoran. That makes a _lot_ of sense, thanks for clearing things up.” 

Errion, again, frowned. “I am, though. We kinda did a lot of shit at school, and then it just kinda carried into us figuring that we’d be better off dating.”

“Holy mother of God, you’re serious, aren’t you?” Vinntur stared at him with wide eyes. “You, my youngest brother, are having sex with _Nelyn_? Ho, my God. So, what are the juicy details? Who fucks who?”

It was Errion’s turn to blush. “It’s . . . he mostly . . . you know, he — ha, he fucks me.” 

“So why are you the one bringing the condoms?” 

“. . . we used them all last time I was there.” Errion coughed into his hand, feeling his phone vibrate against his keys. His ever so patient boyfriend had sounded urgent on the phone, sounding as if he were already on his way to having a good night and needed Errion to get there as fast as possible. Errion had agreed, promising that he was going to get there as soon as he could, but he didn’t anticipate that Vinntur would be awake and ready to stop him and question him. At this point it was getting a bit ridiculous. He didn’t want to waste a drive over there if Nelyn was going to be out of it when Vinntur finally let him go. 

“You really want to go, don’t you?” Vinntur hummed, reaching for his booze again. 

“Actually, yeah. We have limited windows because of his family.” His impatience must have leaked through his tone. 

“By all means, go,” Vinntur waved his hand. Relief filled him at those words. “Tell Nelyn I said ‘hi’, be careful not to get caught, and don’t you dare start drinking and call me to pick you up because I’m going to get drunk as fuck to forget the mental image you put in my head.” 

“You started asking!” Errion snapped hotly. “Besides we aren’t drinking. I can’t. I know better. I’m just — . . . getting laid.” The answer was lame, even for his standards. 

Vinntur’s eyebrows raised in a suggestive manner. “Be safe,” he singsonged. Errion could feel his brothers gaze on his back as he stalked from the kitchen into the foyer, sending a quick text to Nelyn to say that he was finally going to be on his way.


	24. house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is possibly the last drabble dump of the night ,, 
> 
> but anyway this is an old one that revolves around one of the thalmor events in errion's childhood.

“And this one is Errion Thilinaine. You know of his House, don’t you?” Luvie’s voice was sickly sweet. 

At the mention of the word House, Errion raised his eyes. What the fuck were they talking about? House? What did that even mean? 

The subtle motion was met with a swift, sharp kick to the face. Barely being able to bite back the gasp of pain, Errion collapsed onto his side, flinching when the Thalmor spit next to him. “Don’t fucking look at me without permission,” the voice was harsh, showing no pity for the boy. Gritting his teeth, Errion ran his tongue across his lips, able to taste his own blood. He forced himself back into a sitting position, keeping his eyes averted onto the floor. 

“I know of his House,” the Thalmor said, his voice bitter. “The Thilinaine’s are responsible for most of the humiliation my family suffered. And this is their heir?”

Heir? What were they _on_ about? 

“There’s no more proof that he is.” Luvie’s voice was soft, “we took care of that when he was young.” He strode forward, his boots clicking on the hard - tiled floor, hand reaching out and wrapping in Errion’s long, tangled hair. It took all of his strength to bite back a cry of pain, leaning with the motion so that the strain upon his roots wasn’t as bad. His clipped ear — a clear sign of his status as a slave — was exposed. “To anyone, he’s just a slave. He has no mark that makes him an heir, and no claim to his family last name. You can do whatever you want to him and have no repercussions. There is no one that cares!” 

Errion couldn’t help the guttural growl that pulled from the depths of him. In a quick motion that left him breathless, Luvie’s arm shot out, smashing Errion’s face against the tiles. 

Nothing cracked, but pain immediately rose. 

Gasping, Errion’s hands moved to hold him up, grimy fingers clawing into the floor. He was fourteen years old, and here he was, suffering before a _Thalmor_. He was too exhausted to suffer through more pain that he knew Luvie had in store for him, so he forced himself to stay quiet, instead leaning his forehead against the floor and praying to whatever God that was listening that Luvie and the Thalmor man just _left_. 

“Anything, you say?” The Thalmor sounded as if he were frowning. “Vorra, Ara, and Calna are dead?” 

Something inside of Errion snapped. His hands balled into fists, and much to his delight, neither man noticed. 

“Vorra went first, slashed right through the chest. That warrior wasn’t surviving that one. Ara and Calna . . . well, they were raped repetitively. I let my men do whatever they wanted to them before bringing me what they saw fit. This little whelp,” Luvie’s hand entangled in Errion’s hair again, yanking his head back and revealing his face. Blood was trickling down from his nose and his expression was twisted into a grimace, “wasn’t originally apart of my plan. The men did what they wanted with him, too, and when we found that he was alive? That he survived? He became _my_ whelp. I’m not letting a _Thilinaine_ go for any amount of coin that anyone could offer me.” His voice was heavy with satisfaction. 

As if Errion were a wolf in his path, the Thalmor kicked out, catching Errion in the ribs. Still being held up by Luvie, Errion wheezed, unable to fall forward. He could feel the blood beginning to pool against his skin where he had been struck. 

“Luvie,” Ra’Cha called, her voice a warning. “Leave him alone. He can’t handle it. He’s still weak.” 

“Shut up,” Errion growled, earning himself another kick from the Thalmor. This time it was more violent, silencing him faster. 

“He can handle it if I say he can,” Luvie murmured. His voice was loud enough for Ra’Cha to hear him. “Whatever you want to do to him, feel free. As long as he lives.” 

The Thalmor narrowed his eyes. “Is he submissive?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Are you going to get your goddamned whelp to lick my boots?” The words came out as a growl. “Show who is in charge?”

Errion’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“Go on.” Luvie encouraged. His voice told Errion that there was no room to argue. “Show him what you can do.” 

The pressure on his skull released and he was granted slack, allowed a moment to swallow his pride. Throwing a sullen glare up at the Thalmor, Errion’s dark gaze narrowed as he took a shuddering breath, lowering himself onto all fours. He could feel his entire body straining, his brain screaming at him to just dart out of the damned way and escape, but his body had other plans.

Rather than lick his disgusting boots and bring himself shame, Errion spat. He spat on his stupid fucking boots, earning himself a surprised kick. This one was worse than the others — it knocked him fully back, causing him to land on his already dislocated shoulder. A sharp cry of agony unwillingly tore from his bloody lips, and he raised his hands to cover his face from enduring more harm. The blows were sent to his stomach and exposed ribs instead, and when the Thalmor soldier realized that that was getting nowhere, his fingers cruelly dug into Errion’s already injured shoulder, aiming to haul him to his feet and fuck it up some more. But, Luvie stepped in, his hand firm upon the Thalmor’s. 

“Don’t,” was what he started off with. “His disobedience will be taken care of on _my terms_. I need him alive.” 

“This damn kid doesn’t know a thing about his House, his family, and his _name_. You’re jerking him around here.” The Thalmor snarled. “He is _useless_. If you had any sense, you’d kill him.” 

Luvie’s eyes narrowed dangerously. An unspoken challenge rifted between himself and the Thalmor. “I will do with him what I will,” he said in a controlled tone of voice. “He is _my property_. Mine. He will suffer for his disobedience in time, but not now. He is weak, and as much as I hate to admit it, he needs treatment. Lay. Off.”

A moment of silence passed between the two men. Once he realized he had little power here, the Thalmor sniffed. “Fine. Do with him what you will. It doesn’t matter; soon his entire House will be wiped out and the rest will as well. He won’t go far in life. He’ll die here.”


	25. sex and mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lied i had one more.

Nelyn’s hands slip underneath Errion’s shirt, his fingers tracing warm patterns against his ribs. A breathy, weak sound escapes him, and Errion found that he couldn’t stop himself from rolling his hips into his boyfriends with just a slight hint of desperation. He only had a moment to try and catch his breath before Nelyn’s lips were claiming his with enough force to bruise, stealing his focus for what felt like the thousandth time. It seemed as if that was his boyfriends intention, for Errion’s hips had stilled from their haphazard search for friction. 

“Careful, darling,” Nelyn broke away with some difficulty to whisper in Errion’s ear. “You don’t want to ruin your jeans just from foreplay. I know I’m good, but that’s flattery.” 

“Then get them off me and fuck me like you know you want to.” His voice was shaky as he replies, letting his head fall back as finally, _finally_ Nelyn relented and his hands move to start pulling at the button keeping his jeans closed. His fingers are teasing as he slides the metal through the fabric, just barely grazing against the one place Errion wants to be touched. He has to bite back a low, needy moan when Nelyn’s hand instead cups the crotch of his pants. “Don’t make me beg,” Errion managed to get out clearly, but his voice still cracks. 

“I love hearing you beg for me.” Nelyn’s teeth grazed against a particularly sensitive spot underneath Errion’s earlobe, this time pulling a surprised sound from his lips. “But I suppose there’s always time for begging when I have you pinned under me, so close to finishing and desperate for your release.” 

As he spoke, his fingers had tugged down Errion’s fly and his hand had slipped inside, at first starting with snapping the waistband of Errion’s underwear against his pelvis before having mercy. On top of him, with his knees caging his boyfriends hips, Errion’s body went slack. His head remained tilted back whilst his hips ground into Nelyn’s hand, desperate again to be touched. Though his body felt as if it were boneless, and as if he were bound to burn up, all he had the mind for was release. If he were being honest, albeit, the combination of his boyfriends hand and the fabric of his boxers was bringing him closer and closer to the edge. 

“Errion, shut your phone up.” 

Nelyn’s words were muttered against the skin he was still worrying at, but they were enough to pull Errion back into reality. His head was still lolling back upon his shoulders, his back arched and hips bucking forward into Nelyn’s hand. He didn’t know when he had tangled his hands in Nelyn’s long hair, but it was a struggle to untangle his fingers from the thick locks and reach towards nightstand for his phone. He had forgotten to take the ringer off before he got here? That was unlike him . . . He didn’t even remember when his phone started _ringing_. 

Angling the screen at him so he could see the contact name, Errion groaned — and not from the teeth that were embedded in his skin and the petting. “It’s Vinntur, I have to answer it.” 

Nelyn made a noise of complaint against his skin, but didn’t see fit to pull away.

Praying Nelyn had the sense to not bite him again whilst he spoke to his brother, Errion accepted the call, having difficulty bringing the phone up to his ear and hearing past the throbbing of his pulse. His brain was still clouded, and it was hard to think about anything other than his boyfriend moving past the infuriating foreplay to fuck him, but somehow he managed it.

“H - hello? What’s going on?”

Vinntur’s voice came through right away, and didn’t sound as if he were playing games. His eldest brother was usually so carefree, never taking on serious edges unless situations called for it. Something was wrong. “I don’t care if you’ve got your boyfriends dick up your ass right now, but you need to get down to intensive care right away.” He hadn’t even given a greeting.

“Hn —” Nelyn’s hand slipped inside of his boxers, and Errion had to bite his tongue so he didn’t cry out. Nevertheless his hips bucked into Nelyn’s closed fist despite the fact that he was currently cursing him out mentally, but being unable to bring himself to ask him to stop touching him. “What happened?” 

“Melnian got hit by a fucking truck, Errion. Intensive care. _Now._ You need to pick up Calna from her mock exam, too, so we can all be there. Don’t waste any time.” 

“Wait — _what_?” Nelyn, having heard Vinntur’s side of the conversation, finally stopped. Not that Errion wanted him to stop, even whilst hearing that his brother had been hit by a truck. A truck, of all things! He was throbbing, but if he wasted time just to finish himself off — . . . It wasn’t an option, God no. “When?” Guilt flooded him. As he looked down at Nelyn, his boyfriend had on a carefully guarded expression, his face betraying nothing. His hand pulled out of Errion’s pants, but that didn’t mean he was done tormenting him; his tongue lapped at his long fingers, leaving them and his lips shiny. 

“An hour ago. They finally found his emergency contact and called me. He’s in surgery, they don’t know if he’s going to make it. Hurry the fuck up and get here because I can’t — if he dies — just get here.” 

Vinntur’s end of the line went dead. Errion sat back on Nelyn’s thighs, his legs weak from the news, staring at Nelyn’s rumpled shirt. His phone was held loosely in his hand. He looked the wrinkles that were beginning to form in the fabric without really seeing them. 

“I can drive,” Nelyn offered quietly. “If you don’t think you can, I can and we can go pick up Calna together.” 

“I . . . yeah. Yeah. Thank you, I would really appreciate that.” 

In less than five minutes, they both were back to looking at least decent. The news had been sobering enough to crush all desire he had, and though it was a slight disappointment to get interrupted as he got so close to getting what he wanted, he mostly felt guilty. Guilty because he blew Melnian off to go get laid for the first time in a long time. Busy schedules left little time for reconciliation, and when Errion had gotten the offer for it, it had been a battle of his will.

On one hand, he had wanted to spend time with his brother. Melnian was the brother closest to him in age, and he had recently gone away to college. He was back for a few days, and this was his last day home. Errion had been too busy to spend time with him and had promised that today would be dedicated to him, but had ended up blowing him off when Nelyn’s offer had been too tempting. God, he was an idiot! His brother was paying for a mistake Errion had made!

“I blew him off,” Errion’s voice was void of any true emotion. “I told him I had other things to do. Now they don’t know if he’s going to even make it through surgery.” 

“This is not your fault.” Nelyn’s voice is firm. “Bad things happen, but this is not your fault. All you can do right now is be there for him and for the rest of your family.” He sounded awkward giving the advice, but it flew over Errion’s head. He couldn’t stop thinking about how guilty he felt, how this had only happened because he blew him off. If his brother died . . . he would never forgive himself.


	26. siblings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so a friend of mine got me BACK into resident evil and i love chris so gosh dang much 
> 
> we started talking and breaking down the redfield's and their childhood and hO boy i also finished playing the original resident evil 
> 
> ANYWAY i just wanted to do a thing post the spencer estate when everyone is still figuring shit out and WHAT IF CLAIRE WAS THER E TO SEE HER BROTHER AND BE THERE WITH HIM AND fu c k i have so many redfield emotions 
> 
> anyway pt.2
> 
> a lot of this is speculation tbh but i am weak i love them sm & i am sleep deprived so that means i must write

“Where is Chris?” Claire demanded, going up to the counter blocking the people in the waiting room from the nurse behind the desk. “Christopher Redfield, he came in with the S.T.A.R.S. teams,” impatiently, her fingers drummed against the cool surface. “I’m his sister, Claire Redfield. You called our foster parents, and I came instead.” 

“Well, they’re still seeing him in the emergency room,” the nurse mused. She hadn’t looked up at Claire yet. “He had a lot of injuries that needed tending to, as did everyone else in S.T.A.R.S. You know you’re not the first to come up and demand to see a family member? You can see him when the doctor says its all clear.” 

“ _Please_ ,” she begged. “It’s important. I haven’t — I haven’t seen him in years. I need to see him. I need to know that he’s really _okay_.” 

It took a bit of convincing, and maybe a bit of bribery, but eventually the disgruntled nurse led Claire back towards the emergency room. First, they had to pass through the waiting room, which was filled with people form the Raccoon City Police department, other S.T.A.R.S. branches that Claire wasn’t familiar with, and people that she could only guess were family and close friends. Her heart dropped when one of them gave her a nasty glare, one filled with grief. That meant . . . not everybody made it out. 

Pushing open a heavy door, the nurse held it for Claire before leading her back to the emergency room patient areas. There were a few cots outside pressed up against walls, the sheets dirty and blood stained, and a few of the curtains were drawn around the patient areas, but surprisingly it was mostly empty. The S.T.A.R.S. members that needed medical attention were clustered together, seemingly not ready to part.

With the nurse taking her leave, Claire stepped closer to them all, her voice caught in her throat. They all looked battered and exhausted. There was Barry, Brad, Rebecca, Jill . . . if they were the surviving members, including her brother, S.T.A.R.S. had to be finished.

“Hey, Claire!” A voice tinged with excitement drew her attention, and before she could respond, a pair of arms were briefly wrapped around her and her senses were attacked by the rank stenches of smoke, sweat, blood, and gunpowder. Jill Valentine was stepping back when Claire finally found her ability to speak. “You’re here,” a smile took over Jill’s grungy features. “Chris will be glad to see you.”

“My foster parents got the call and I came over as soon as I could,” Claire’s voice was distracted. “I had to see him. Is he okay?”

No one answered her right away. Taking this moment to really look at them all, the youngest Redfield couldn’t help but feel pity for them all. 

Jill seemed to be best off of them all; though she was dirty, reeking of several rank things that Claire couldn’t put a name to, and stained with soot, she didn’t have a lot of wounds but a crudely bandaged gash on her right shin and a couple of surface cuts and bruises. Albeit, part of her clothing was singed away on her upper left arm and her skin was red and swollen, but she was relatively okay.

From this distance, Claire could hear Rebecca wheezing. The youngest of them was hunched over on the floor, her hand resting between her ribs. Her eye sockets looked shadowed and her face gaunt, specked with blood and ash. She had several wounds that intersected each other on her forearms, and her pants were ripped all the way up to her knee on the right side. Though the bleeding had stopped, there was a nasty deep wound that needed to be seen.

Brad was also relatively unhurt. Except for a black eye, a broken nose, and swelling to his head, he was more untouched than Jill. At the most, he just seemed shaken, which was completely understandable. 

On the other hand, Barry, was a mess. Blood was still drying on his chin from cracked lips, and they were swollen from taking a heavy blow. One finger was twisted at an awkward angle, and his shoulder was sickeningly popped out of place. If he knew something, he wasn’t talking; his teeth were dug into his tongue and he was going to continue upholding his silence. 

“He’s in shock.” Rebecca offered finally, her voice raspy. “Bad shock. Hasn’t spoken a word since we got here, which is weird for him. You know your brother,” _not sure that I really do anymore_ , Claire thought, “he always has something to say.” Rebecca’s hand carded through her short hair as she continued breathlessly. “From what I saw, he had a bite on his upper arm from a cerberus that they were worried about, and a gash on his forehead, so I think they’re stitching it up right now and checking to see if that was it or not. Maybe they’re trying to give him a chance to adjust, snap back into it without being pressured — I don’t know. He will be fine, though.”  

“Cerberus?” 

“A type of fucking hellhound.” Barry grunted, breaking his silence. “Got one of us when we arrived at that shithole. Poor Joseph, what an awful way to die, ripped apart by one of those fucking things.” 

“Where . . . where is Wesker? Richard? Forest, Kenneth — and Enrico?” Claire frowned, looking for more familiar S.T.A.R.S. members. She was only hoping that at the sounds of their names they’d come bleeding out of the walls to show that they were okay. But it was just hope. “Are you guys the only survivors?” 

All of their faces grew somber. Tears pricked in Rebecca’s eyes. Bracing herself for the news of more death, Claire turned towards Jill, who seemed to be the only one able to talk about it just yet.

“Richard died saving Chris from Neptune, some type of fucking shark that this ‘Umbrella’ was working on. Kenneth died when we got there. We all heard the shots in the entry way and I guess Chris solved the mystery of what happened to him. Forest . . . had been dead for a while before that. We think he got there before all of us and perished before our team had even been dispatched. Wesker, though? The son of a bitch took me captive, took Barry by surprise and incapacitated him, killed Enrico to shut him up, shot Rebecca, tried to kill Chris, and got his in the end.” 

Claire’s jaw went slack with surprise. “He was a _traitor_? How?” 

“He was working for this Umbrella Corporation, and if I know Chris,” Jill scoffed, “he’ll want to hunt them down. I hope not. I hope this was sobering enough to get his recklessness to tone down and realize that this is bigger than all of us.”

For a moment, jealousy hit Claire hard. The years had been bad for her and her brother. She knew next to nothing about him now, except what she could vaguely recall from the deepest corners of her mind, and even that was vague. Here she was listening to Jill, his partner, who knew him better than Claire did. 

During her teenage years, hanging on Chris’ every letter, Claire had built a mental image of a war hero in her mind pertaining to her brother. This badass warrior who got himself on the S.T.A.R.S. team, who had so much talent and could offer any squadron he was placed on wonderful things. It wasn’t fair to place him on such a high pedestal, for once she got to know him all over again, her image of him was going to fracture.

Jill went on, oblivious to Claire’s sudden realization. “Chris will tell you the full thing when he’s ready.” 

The curtain hiding Chris and his doctor from view pulled back, and a tired looking older man stepped out. “A couple of nurses will be with you few soon,” he said in a strained voice, “and then when you’ve all been given the green light, you can go. This guy, Chris, can go too. If his family is here, make sure they take him and he doesn’t go on his own.”

“Thank you,” Rebecca called, whilst Barry just made a noncommittal grunt. 

“I’m going in.” Claire said firmly, and Jill made a sweeping motion, choosing to step aside. 

The curtains weren’t open all the way, and not ready yet to see him, Claire took her time in sliding between them and making sure that she closed them behind her. Facing the white pattern, Claire took a deep breath before turning around, prepared to have her unrealistic mental image fracture and be replaced with the reality of Christopher Redfield.

Her older brother was wrapped in a thermal blanket, his eyes blank and staring at something that she couldn’t see. Those bronze hues flicked onto her, but it was like he was looking right _through_ her. Within a moment they were off of her again, but no recognition crossed his face. He didn’t see her, or he didn’t know her. Claire’s heart sank.

Chris’ lips were chapped and bloody, and his face was extraordinarily pale, almost as if all of his blood had drained out of him. There were stitches lining the curve of his forehead on the left side of his face, looking raw and painful. The area around them was red. There was dried blood crusted behind his ear and all over his clothes, as well as soot and ash and numerous other things that Claire couldn’t identify. His clothes were torn and ripped to shreds, and there were numerous other gashes, burns and bruises that made a messy pattern across his skin. What really caught her eye were the stitches across his right bicep; this cerberus must have torn deeply, for blood still welled around the fresh stitches, and there were so many that she couldn’t bear to count. 

She remembered him always sitting up straight, with his shoulders back and his chest puffed out. Now, he sat with his shoulders rounded and curved in upon themselves, almost looking as if he were a frail young boy in need of much assistance. His hands were trembling in his lap, and the closer Claire got, the more details she could pick out about him.

The dried blood and dirt underneath his nails, the slight wheeze to his breath indicating that he had broken ribs, the blood crusted in his hair, the burns on his palms . . .

“Chris?” Claire whispered, hesitantly putting her hand on his shoulder. She didn’t want to hurt him, but he didn’t respond to her touch. “Are you . . . Chris? Hey, Chris,” gently, she shook his shoulder, hoping to snap him out of it. 

“ _Richard_ ,” he managed to get out in contorted voice, swallowing dryly. He licked his lips, but the blood still remained. He wasn’t aware that she was there before him. Chris wasn’t aware that it was _Claire_ and not Richard. She could only imagine how horrifying it had been to see one of your friends get devoured by a shark right before your eyes. And the fact that Richard saved Chris’ life? It had to be haunting her brother more than she realized. 

Nudging Chris over on the cot, Claire climbed up onto it with him, pulling the thermal blanket so that it could drape over the two of them. Despite being in the basic S.T.A.R.S. clothing and wrapped in the blanket, his skin was cold and clammy. She snuggled in close to his side, resting her head on his shoulder. His muscles grew stiff and terse underneath her touch, but quickly grew lax again. As if quietly acknowledging her, his head rested upon hers, and a childish sense of grief filled her. Grief for the years they had lost — no, the years that Chris had sacrificed to support her — grief for the way he was turning out, for the things he was experiencing, for what he had gotten into.

And even a small shred of regret, for not being there to stop him from leaving. Things would have been so much different if he had just _stayed_.

“I’m sorry, Chris,” she whispered, not knowing if she was sorry for not stopping him, or sorry for not trying harder to find him, or even for not keeping in better contact with him. She didn’t know if she was sorry for what he had gone through, partially on her behalf, or if she was sorry for even coming. She wasn’t sure if he had heard her, and frankly, she didn’t think she minded. There would be time soon for him to register that his sister was here for him, and that they would no longer be such a mess.

“We’ll figure this out.” 


	27. i promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chris joining the us air force & giving claire a quiet goodbye

Claire’s room was dark, completely unfamiliar to him unlike the one she had in their old house. Chris was sure he was going to bang his shin on her bedside table or on the bed once or twice on his way over to her, but miraculously he didn’t. Hesitantly, Chris sat down on the side of her bed, shakily pushing her hair off of her forehead. She looked so peaceful when she slept, not at all worn down by the responsibilities that made Chris’ shoulders round. 

Carefully, Chris slid an envelope underneath her pillow, keeping it peaking out enough so that she would be able to see it in the morning. Within were a picture of their parents on their wedding day, his note of goodbye, and their parents wedding rings. In the Air Force, he wouldn’t be needing them anymore. Though it physically hurt him to do this, he had to.

This was one of the hardest decisions he was being forced to make in his entire life. Since their parents death, Claire _was_ his life; she was only eleven, she needed all the help that Chris could afford to give her. She needed him to stay with her, to be her support, to be her new parent and take care of her. Sure, having foster parents was going to be good for her, but they couldn’t give her what Chris could. They didn’t know her like he did; they _wouldn’t_ know her. But at the same time, he wasn’t a legal adult yet, didn’t have his own house, didn’t have a serious job, and really couldn’t be there for her if he was working to keep her comfortable and supported all the time.

His letter basically explained what he was doing. Running away from their new home to join the Air Force, so that any earnings he did get he can send back to her. He can put into a trust fund for her, or into a college fund. He wanted Claire to have every opportunity that he didn’t have because their parents just didn’t have the money. A few days prior, he had also set up a living trust; something that would give Claire possession over all of his belongings and be able to sell them off if she so chooses _if_ he came to some sort of fatal harm. 

He also put in some information for her future: if she so desired, she could pawn off the gems in their mothers wedding ring for some fast cash, and sell their fathers pure golden ring as well. It wasn’t something he wanted to put in there, but he felt that it was necessary. He had no clue for how long he was going to be gone, but if all went the way he thought it was going to go, he’d be stuck out there for a few years before being able to cycle back to visit her for a couple of days. At that point he could file for legal custody of her, and figure out where to take his life from there. 

Yet, there was always that chance that he was going to perish and be unable to do any of that. Or that they wouldn’t cycle him back in time. Or that he might have to go back too soon and have to withdraw his claim for custody.

There were too many factors that were working against him, too many things that would plague his mind and make him worry more for her.

 _I’m so sorry, Claire_ , he thought, moving his hand to smooth her hair off her forehead again. Her short bangs fell back into her eyes, and she gave a soft sigh, quickly falling back into the deep throes of sleep. _I know you wanted me to be here with you, to experienced this with you and eventually grow to love our foster parents as we did our own, but I want to do everything that I can to help you. Me staying here wouldn’t help you at all. Please understand why I’m doing this, and please forgive me. I will alway come back for you, I promise._

Bending over, he pressed his lips gently to her temple, hardly able to hold back hot tears. He had to leave now, or else he’d miss his opportunity entirely. She made a noise of complaint, but still remained asleep. The bed creaked as he stood up, but since it was so early in the morning, Claire wouldn’t wake. She was a deep sleeper in the early hours of the morning, so nothing but loud noises would really wake her.

“I love you,” he murmured, hoping that he wasn’t making the wrong choice. 


	28. bites.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all i wanted to do was kill chris & idk man 
> 
> sad tm

A warm wetness mixed with the cool feel of the rain slipped down his leg. A dull, pulsating ache where teeth had torn through the fabric of his pants and met with his bare skin kept his mind from wandering too far. He was the only one upon the ground, and he was the only one who had suffered the misfortune of being bitten. Ironic, wasn’t it? A Captain and a founder of this amazing organization, and he was going to die during one of the second biggest outbreaks since 2013. It was okay, though; it was okay. He didn’t mind. At least his life wasn’t going to end at the barrel of his own gun, or at the bottom of a bottle. 

No, this was honorable.

“Captain?” One of the boys asks. His Pointman, a good kid; honorable, sharp, and not to mention, quick. He had seen what had happened. His voice was a rasp. “Orders?”

Silence blankets the intercom, only broken by the sounds of ragged breathing and rain. There’s no gunshots, and for once, Chris is glad. His last moments will be peaceful. 

“It was an honor to have served.” He says, his voice catching in his throat. Easily, he tilts his head back and pulls his visor off, letting it fall onto the ground beside him as the rain begins to soak into his bare skin. It’s sad, he thinks, he’s nearly forty - four and he’s got so much life left to live. He had been looking forward to being a father, to getting married, better late than never. But every life must come to an end, and this is his end of the line. “You boys will do well without me. You’ll all go far with the B.S.A.A.” 

“Do you want us to . . .?” Their rookie asks, unable to finish the question. He doesn’t blame the boy.

“No, no,” Chris shakes his head, scattering water droplets. It’s dark out, and there are minimal lights illuminating their way, but he sees them gleaming out of the corner of his gaze. They look like miniature crystals, looking so beautiful until they shatter. He’s not upset, he’s not even sad about any of this. He’s . . . peaceful. Too peaceful, too calm. Too ready to look at his reaper and say: _“I’ve been evading you for so long, but now, now I am ready.”_

He knows that there is no hope for him. It was the T - virus, revisited. Not in the same manner of Raccoon, not in the same manner of China, but, different. It’s a separate strain, one that’s more deadly and more efficient. The data they’ve collected shows that it is airborne, and it can be spread through saliva. One of the drawbacks is that once you’re infected, you have one minute. Two minutes, tops, before you’re beginning to succumb. There’s no way to evade it. The creatures that come out of it are stronger than the ones from so long ago, retaining enough function to run and use the strength that they have inside. Not enough brain function remains for them to be cognitive, but enough for them to almost seem intelligent. 

With the virus being this way, it makes it absolutely impossible to take samples from an infected host. The host is dead too soon, and anyone in a nearby radius is in danger. Whomever had released the virus to begin with, as that was still unknown to all of the organizations in this dirty line of business, had truly been gunning for the end of the world. 

America, in almost all of it’s entirety, was infected. Most of Europe, Asia, and China, too. Australia took a heavy hit, and so did Africa. Other countries were dark, no one able to respond, so it was supposed they got hit heavier than anyone else. It was absolute chaos everywhere. All agents of any organization was to get their asses in gear and receive their orders, which were mostly among the same lines: find weakness, exploit it, fight them back to a tolerable point. Save the innocent. Beat the fucking _clock_ and get out alive. Save their world. 

Chris’ fingers brush against the holster at his hip, feeling gun almost burn against his thigh. For a moment, his eyes slip closed and he breathes steadily, mentally counting down the seconds he has left. When he reopens them, albeit, he could swear that he chokes. 

He sees two people before him that he hadn’t seen since he was seventeen: his parents. His mother, Annemarie, is standing with her arm looped through her husbands, her blue eyes tearful and her lips wobbling. She’s proud of him, he can see it in her eyes, but she’s sad. Sad because his life is ending too soon. Her hair is the same dark brown streaked with red, tucked back into the same neat braid. She’s beautiful, and Claire looks just like her. His father, Albert, is very stoic. But his bronze eyes are loving and he’s looking at his son with admiration. His own red hair is tufted up and is sparse across his cheeks and his jaw. Though his lips are hidden, Chris has to presume that they’re partially pulled up into a sad smile. They’re _so_ both proud of him, both anticipating him, but both grieving because he’s coming too soon. He can see it in their eyes, they don’t want him to join him just yet. They want him to live and experience.

Behind them, he can see the countless people he’s lost over the years; Forest and Joseph are smug and looking eager for a reunion, whereas Richard is hanging off of Enrico’s arm with a pleading look on his face, only turning to give Chris a quick flash of a grin. Brad and Kenneth are gently bickering, and Edward looks on with a roll of his eyes, but they’re all smiling and eager. Each and every one of his deceased comrades are a sight for sore eyes. 

But, _oh_ , it feels like a sharp blow to his solar plexus to see his more recent losses. Jeff, Keaton, Marco, Reid, Ben, Carl, _Andy_ — his boys are smiling, their gazes sad, but they’re offering a salut and Chris has to bite back a sob. All of them died under his command. His gaze roams a fraction to the left, and he sees the more recent two deaths that drove him to drink: rookie Finn MacCauley, and his most trusted, Piers Nivans. They’ve got their arms hooked around each other, and their eyes are gleaming so brightly. They’re living in the beyond, alive and okay, no longer in any pain. Piers gives Chris a little, proud nod, his expression content.

More and more of the people Chris has lost seems to filter in, as if ready to greet him and introduce him to their world. His eyes are roaming many faces, able to hear their voices within his mind as clear as ever. _It won’t be long, my friends, my family._ He promises silently. _I am on my way._

“Captain?” His Pointman calls, stirring him from his silent reflection. 

“You’ve all served me well, boys.” He states calmly, able to feel an uncomfortable heat rising from his core. He slides the gun from its holster, checking that the safety is off before checking how much ammo was left in it. “Don’t let my body go back home. I don’t want them to see me that way.”

His heart clenches as he thinks of his sister and of Jill. Claire would be beside herself, but she’d learn to live. Jill, though? His partner would do what she did best: compartmentalize, and try to live, for the sake of the B.S.A.A. and the future. Barry, oh, he’d grieve. He’d take it as a personal loss, even though they hadn’t seen each other since Chris was _really_ bad with his drinking. Leon, too; the friends he’s come to hold dear will have to move on.

“You don’t mean —” The rookie says, and Chris nods grimly. 

“When they hear this shot, they’ll flock to me. Use that as your escape. Go back to H.Q., get more orders, and then come back at it with a new strategy. Leave my body here. There will be no use for it.” Slowly, he slides his high collar back and adjusts himself so that his neck is tilted for easier access. “It’s better this way, boys.” 

Radio silence. Behind him, he hears the shuffling of his men as they get into position, their guns training upon him in case he fails to make it in time. Chris didn’t need them to do such a thing; he knew his time was up. It was the time to make a move now.

The barrel is cool as he presses it at the juncture of his chin and his neck, angling it just right. His thumb steadily pulls back the hammer, hearing the gun give a little _click_. Once more, his lungs fill with air, and then he’s squeezing the trigger.

A _crack_ rings out across the open space, and like he predicted, those whom had been unlucky enough to turn are running to investigate the noise. 

Chris is dead before he hits the ground.


	29. instincts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lk wanna split off all these chapters into little organized ficlets of their own ?? 
> 
> i never expected to begin getting up to 30 + chapters jesus christ 
> 
> also leon test run ??

The way his arm slides out is instinctual in it’s own right. In these types of situations, he knows himself. He knows how he falls prey to primal instincts that truly aren’t his own. He’s buried them for so long, refusing to believe that he could return to a baser existence with minimal provocation. No, he doesn’t want to think about how his body moves of it’s own accord and will, of how his brain refuses to function, how he simply compartmentalizes every little thing he comes across until it’s almost too much for him to bear. He doesn’t want to think of how he can become a monster so easily, not now and not ever.

Air, hot, stagnant and deadly, whips past his face and as his hand is flat against the collarbones of another. His entire body is flush with the wall, the tendons in his neck straining as his head is pulled back uncomfortably. His heart pounds far too rapidly in his chest, and he can hear his pulse throbbing behind his ears. But an eery sense of calm fills him. 

“Leon,” her voice is soft and thick with horror. She’s new to this, he knows. She hasn’t seen half the horrors that he has. He almost missed her murmur over the roar of the train. 

The tail comes, and almost immediately they both relax. Leon’s hand doesn’t stray from Helena’s chest, his arm stuck out straight, muscles almost frozen. She’s pressed against his arm, looking at him inquisitively, unsure of how to react to him still holding her.

“Sorry,” Leon mutters, moving his hand away. Cautiously, he looks where the train came from to ensure that there was nothing there, and to where it disappeared, feeling unease rise within him. The zombies that were previously upon the tracks were now all, unfortunately, crushed. Their bodies began to disintegrate, becoming a grimy mess before seeping into the ground. 

A part of him wanted to hate this. A part of him truly wanted to hate this living hell, to escape it as soon as possible and go back to the world where things were okay. But a second part of him, a baser, purely primal existence that scared the fuck out of him, enjoyed it. Enjoyed the feel of working for every moment of his survival, of weeding out those who would survive and those who would die, of killing the shambling corpses that shouldn’t still exist, but do. It scares him. He shouldn’t enjoy living like this, but he does.

Once, when he and Chris were e - mailing before, the older Redfield had admitted the same thing. Though he wouldn’t wish for any outbreak to happen again, he _enjoyed_ living his life like that. He _enjoyed_ fighting for every aspect of survival. _Enjoyed_ weeding through the gunk and the gore and the decay. It was a baser level of existence, and Leon fucking loved it. They both fucking lived for it and admitted it over those e - mails. 

“C’mon, Helena,” Leon’s voice is sharp as he trudges down the tracks, ready to leap to the side to press against the wall if he needed to. “We need to get out of here.” 

“Right,” she replies, following after him dutifully. She’s a good girl, a bit suspicious, but overall seeming like a good person. But if push came to shove, if she did show ‘true’ colors, he’d put a bullet in her head faster than she could blink.

Leon couldn’t help it. It was survival of the fittest out here, and God damnit, these baser instincts were the fittest of them all.


	30. crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have this lil headcanon that s.t.a.r.s. went through psychological evaluations post the mansion incident, but, in reality it was just umbrella blackmailing them into silence / bullying them / buying their silence.
> 
> just like
> 
> trying to clean up the mess because s.t.a.r.s. was supposed to be destroyed there and these little shits are gonna expose them as soon as they get the chance. 
> 
> i decided to write it but i am extremely sleep deprived so idk if any of this makes sense but i'm posting it anyway

“Christopher Redfield?” The voice that said his name was cool and callous, unfamiliar, but professional. At first, Chris didn’t even know she had called his name. He had been so engulfed in his paperwork ( _such a shocker_ ) that Jill had to elbow him in his still - tender ribs to get his attention. He had looked over at his partner with a glare before she motioned to the woman, and Chris froze, shame gripping him. 

She was standing in front of the desk, her hands clasped at the small of her back, lips pursed. Her expression showed him that she was unimpressed already, clearly annoyed with his lack of respect. Her one hand dropped so she could drum her fingers on his desk, lips pulling down into a frown. If looks could kill, then Chris presumed that he’d be dead ten times over. 

Clearing his throat and leaning back in his chair as if he could escape her gaze, he spoke. “Yes?” 

Still, the woman looked unimpressed. “Your superior ordered psychological evaluations for all of his S.T.A.R.S. members. I already checked out Brad Vickers, and your partner Jill Valentine, and you’re next on my list.” Falsely kind mocha eyes gazed down at him, and there was a note of authority in her voice that Chris couldn’t find the will to argue with. Already, he decided that he didn’t like her. 

Looking back at Jill and seeing the resentment that gleamed in her pale hues, Chris hesitated. Jill was usually good at keeping her emotions under wrap, so this was unfamiliar. “Can you handle without me for a bit?”

Jill swallowed before she spoke, struggling with control over herself. “Yeah, I can. Go on, Chris. Don’t worry about it.” 

Chris slid out of his seat and Jill popped over into it, her hand gently gracing his before he had to pull away, hurrying to catch up to the woman. She had already turned, her heels clicking loudly in comparison to the soft footfalls of Chris’ black jungle boots. This woman had never been out on the field before, he knew; he could tell by the way she moved and the way she held herself. She was soft, ‘green’ in Barry’s own words, and completely blind to the horrors that Chris and seen in the Air Force, and in that fucking mansion. 

Where her shoulders were held proud and properly, Chris’ were taut, stiff, ready to snap into action at any given moment. Where her steps were confident and loud, Chris’ were quiet and wary, always stepping lightly, almost as if he were terrified of treading across a landmine or stepping on _something_. Where she ignored the little things that she saw or heard, Chris paid attention to them constantly; he evaluated if they were a threat, or if it was something to worry about later on. Call it paranoia, but he wasn’t about to be caught off guard again, even in territory that he was familiar with. 

The woman led him to an unmarked room at the end of one of the unused hallways of the department. He hadn’t been in there before, for Irons liked to keep a tight grip upon his officers and make sure that they weren’t going to places that they weren’t supposed to be. Brad once said that he had gotten into one of the restricted rooms once, and Irons had ended up tearing him a new one! It would have seemed suspicious to Chris that Irons didn’t want them to go into unused rooms, but the chief was a paranoid man, and often questions led to weeks of desk duty that Chris was not prepared to serve out. 

Albeit, this woman unlocked the door as if she had nothing else to do in the world, and held the door open for Chris to come inside after her. If she noticed any of his hesitance, she didn’t comment on it. At least her demeanor seemed to have changed considerably towards him. She seemed a bit warmer, but still held a sense of professionalism, which he didn’t mind. He still didn’t like her, though. Jill could be a bit standoffish towards people, but he had never seen someone make her uneasy. If she made _Jill_ of all people uneasy, then he wasn’t going to take any chances. 

The interior was nicely furnished with expensive furniture from down the road, yet it seemed bare. No personal touch was added to the room. There was a desk with a leather swiveling office chair pushed into one corner, along with a lamp and a computer set up, and a base phone. There was a notebook resting on the corner of the desk as well, and the writing inside of it was neat and small, written in pencil. Closer to the doorframe, there was a nice blue lounge with matching cushions resting on it, and if Chris were any sort of intelligent, he presumed that’s where he’d be sitting. 

Across from it was a nice dark chair with an ottoman in front of it, and a second short table that had a cup with pens and pencils in it. There was a water bottle on it as well, set upon a coaster, dripping with condensation. The room wasn’t that warm, but it was sitting directly in a nice ray of sunlight. It was the little things that Chris noticed about this unused little area. The white walls with hardly no stains on them, the wooden floors with no scratches, the windows with the curtains drawn on all of them except for one; the one behind her chair. If he had anything to gather from it, then he’d be certain that this was more of a temporary office than anything.

“Sit, please,” the woman motioned to the lounge. Satisfaction welled within Chris at his easy prediction, but he did as he was bid. The lounge was firm and uncomfortable underneath him, so Chris stuffed a cushion behind the small of his back, finding that it wasn’t much better there. Grunting, he shifted, wondering if this was intentional in order to keep him on edge. 

She sat in the chair across from him, reaching back onto the desk to grab the notebook. Pulling a clipboard that was hooked onto it, Chris tried to catch a quick glimpse of what she had on it, but she had it angled away from him so that he couldn’t tell. As he watched, she reached for a pencil, turning back to look at him with a quirked brow. 

“So, you’re going to be deciding if I’m crazy or not, huh?” Chris asked sarcastically, and the woman’s expression turned sour. She still hadn’t given him her name. Weird. 

“No, Christopher,” he tensed. Only Wesker called him Christopher on a casual basis, and Wesker was fucking _dead_. If she noticed his sudden change, she didn’t let on. “We’re going to go over the events that happened at the Spencer Estate. I have your report right here, and it says that you reported that the pharmaceutical and cosmetic company called ‘ _Umbrella_ ’ was running illicit experiments upon the Trevor family, and was gathering data from the S.T.A.R.S. teams? That they were planning on killing you tweleve?” Her voice was cool. Too cool. Why was she regarding him as if he was crazy? Unease continue to fill him.

Thinking over his words for a moment, Chris ended up nodding. That was a safe option. “Yes. Reports that I found in Trevor Residence and the labs underneath the Spencer Estate confirmed that Umbrella was running unethical tests upon the people living on the estates property, and that Albet Wesker created S.T.A.R.S. to lead t — . . . _us_ , eventually to the estate to see how we would fare against the prototype Tyrant, which Jill Valentine, Rebecca Chambers and myself fought and killed before the self destruct mechanism in the Spencer Estate went off. Unfortunately, any evidence we had of any of this was lost.”

The woman nodded along, but she didn’t seem to be listening too closely. Distractedly, she adjusted her papers, tapping them on the clipboard to even them out. “This . . . Tyrant,” she said the word like it wasn’t the one she wanted to use, “you describe it as being ‘ _larger than life_ ’?”

“It was taller than most of the houses in this town.” Chris replied icily. “I had to take it out with a rocket launcher that Brad dropped down for me. It was _not_ an easy kill.” His throat felt as if it was beginning to close up in fear at the thought of it.

“All of your stories seem to correlate quite nicely.” She leafed through the papers, her lips pursing. “Did you all go over them whilst in that helicopter before returning back here to make your official reports?” The woman fixed him with her dark gaze, no like for Chris appearing at all in her expression. “That seems to be the most plausible route, right, Christopher?” She did _not_ like him.

“What?” Chris felt confusion creeping up within him. “‘ _Stories_ ’ — what we went through out there wasn’t _fake_ , it was _real_. We walked into hell, and we walked back out of hell into the real world. Do you think we would make any of this up? Intentionally do this to ourselves?” Pushing back his hair that miraculously _wasn’t_ spiked up for the first time in a long time, he showed the woman what Lisa Trevor had permanently left him with. 

The stitches lining the curve of his forehead on the left side of his face was raw, looking ugly and painful. The skin around the wound was just as raw as the wound itself, almost as if infection was creeping in. His skin still tender to the touch, as if he were bruised from what had happened. Over the course of the past couple of weeks, he had been suffering from the side - effects of a concussion, keeping a careful watch upon himself so he didn’t accidentally die in his sleep. After all that he had gone through, he would not die like that.

“ _This_?” He spat out through gritted teeth.

Yanking up the sleeve of his S.T.A.R.S. short sleeved uniform t - shirt, Chris revealed the gaping crater in his flesh where that fucking Cerberus had bitten him. There were deep scrape marks around the wound too, where the creature hadn’t been able to find a good purchase upon his skin and had struggled. Most of the muscle and the tissue was gone, revealing the horrific sight of exposed sinewy muscles and tendons that would never be the same. For a moment, he thought he saw the woman’s eyes widen, but it happened too quickly for him to be sure.

“We made none of this up. It happened. _All_ of it. Every word in those reports are true.” Chris fixed his shirt, yanking it down to cover the wound. He washed it several times a day to ensure that he didn’t have the fucking T - Virus that he had read about, though he was sure that it would have gotten him by now if the Cerberus had managed to pass it onto him. The only threat now had to be infection, but he wasn’t going to allow himself to succumb to such a thing. No, if anything, he was going to die at the wrong end of a gun.

The woman crossed her legs, pulling her skirt down to cover her thighs more. He thought she almost seemed nervous, uneasy. “All of that can be explained rationally,” she started calmly, “you fell down a flight of stairs and hit your head, or Albert Wesker jumped you and knocked you out with blunt force. A rabid dog bit you, and tore out your flesh.” 

Frustrated, Chris lunged to his feet, knocking the lounge back and making it appear crooked. He was thankful that there was no coffee table in front of him, knowing that he would have bashed his shins if there had been one. “That — no, _no_ , I know what happened that night. I was there. I saw it all with my own eyes. It _happened_. There’s no way I could have made half of that shit up on my own.” 

“I’m not denying that it happened, Christopher, please _sit back down_.” Reluctantly, he did, not wanting to mess with the commanding tone in her voice. “I’m giving you a rational answer to what you _think_ happened. You experienced a traumatic event at the Spencer Estate, there is no denying that. You were alone for so long — cold, wet, injured — your brain made up an absurd reason as to why things were happening. Zombies. Zombified dogs. Tyrants. Evil Umbrella. Hunters. Neptune. Yawn. They weren’t real; they were hallucinations that your brain created to give you a way to cope and take a short break from reality.”

She tucked a lock long, white blonde hair behind her ear. It looked perfect. Too perfect. Her eyes were too dark, too rich in color. There was something dangerous in her eyes, something that glinted and reminded him of a predator. Whoever this woman was, she was terrifying. She held the power in this room, not him. He felt small and frail, like a mouse pinned underneath a cats heavy paw. Her claws were steadily sinking into him and he longed to fight back, but there was nothing he could say. 

“Richard was bitten by a venomous snake, a kind not uncommon in the Arklay Mountains, and he perished to the venom. You didn’t reach him in time to save his life with what you called ‘Serum’. Enrico was shot by Albert Wesker, whom had previously snapped, and turned on S.T.A.R.S. because of the pressure that had been placed upon him by Irons. Forest perished in the estate explosion. Everyone else in your team, everyone in Bravo Team and the deceased members in Alpha Team, were lost in the mountains. They succumbed to natural deaths. Joseph had been ripped apart by same rabid dogs that came after you. Everyone else, albeit, they were caught in the explosion. Accidents, Christopher. That is how everyone else died. There were no supernatural occurrences, no tests, nothing.” 

Chris’ hands were trembling as he twisted them together in his lap. “Thats not true,” he tried in a rough voice, struggling to keep himself under control. He could feel a snap building in him.

“You have PTSD, Christopher. PPD, too, which means _Paranoid Personality Disorder_. You’ve got several anxiety disorders, and other mental disorders that I _will_ find. Your brain made it all up.” 

 _No_. “I’m not crazy.”

“I did not say you were crazy.” 

“You’re insinuating it.”

“I am not insinuating anything, I am just telling you what you have.” 

“What I _have_? I’m not sick.”

“You are mentally ill, Christopher Redfield. You saw and survived horrible things when you were in the Air Force, when you were just a young boy. You did things in S.T.A.R.S., rough things, that weren’t quite required of you but you did it anyway. This incident at the Spencer Estate, what you _think_ happened, was because of your mental illness. None of it, Christopher, was actually real. Creatures like that don’t exist, and never will.” 

“You’re _wrong_ ,” Chris was grasping at straws. He couldn’t believe what this woman was telling him, how could she stand to be so ignorant? Why was she so dense? All of them had seen the same things, been through the same things, of _course_ their stories would correlate! 

“No, I am not.” Her voice sounded sad. “I’m just trying to help you, Christopher.” The woman pulled out what looked like a prescription pad, beginning to write upon it. 

“I’m not taking anything.” Chris snapped, sourly folding his arms over his chest. _Now_ he could see why Brad and Jill hadn’t spoken of what had happened. “There is no way.” 

“It will be here for when you need it.” She answered breezily, With slight fingers, she pulled the paper off of the pad, leaning forward so she could put it on the cushion next to him. Defiantly, he made a point not to acknowledge it, instead choosing to fixate his glare upon her. She didn’t seem unnerved in the slightest, and when Chris failed to break the silence that settled between them, she spoke instead.

“Now, I was curious about you.” She admitted, recrossing her legs. “I took a look into your financials to get a better grasp upon you. I dug back into your personal life, too. You caused your parents deaths when you were seventeen, isn’t that correct?” 

Chris’ throat tightened, but he didn’t say anything. He could feel the rage within him beginning to swell.

“You told the police officers that they were out on the road because of you, yes? They had picked you up from a party, drunk, and because you had forgotten something important there, you made them go back. They were hit head on by an out of control vehicle, deemed an accident, but you blamed yourself.” 

“What are you getting at?” Chris managed to get out levelly. He didn’t know how he did, but it managed to surprise the woman. She arched an eyebrow at him, a smile beginning to pull at the corners of her lips. 

“You lied to the state and government for a total of seven months. You said that you were living with a guardian, but during that time you dropped out of school and picked up odd jobs to take care of your younger sister. When you were found out, _both_ of you were put into foster care, where you were quickly placed, yes?” 

Chris’ jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

“Your sister is what got you placed. No one wanted a problematic seventeen year old angsty boy who was far too overprotective, and didn’t listen to direction. So within that first week of being placed, you took off. Left no indication of where you were going; just went off and joined the Air Force. Still a minor, of course, but you lied to them, too. But what confused me was the fact that you chose the _Air Force_. After all you had gone through before, why distance yourself completely from your sister?” 

She laughed, a cold sound, one that he didn’t like. “So, I looked deeper. I discovered that your parents were lacking in the money department, and that you suffered through periods of having no money for months at a time. You didn’t have a college fund set up, but your sister, Claire — right? — had one. One that you had been depositing money into ever since nineteen - eighty - six. By that deduction, I presume you were thirteen at the time when you began putting money into it. In early nineteen - ninety, I noticed an oddity; there were large sums of money being transferred from incognito and liquidated accounts and deposited in hers. Naturally, I traced it.” 

“Oh, _naturally_.” Chris snapped, but fell silent when she fixed him with a glare.

“Through some investigation and tracing, I found the trail. It was a confusing, nearly non - existent trail, but I had found it nonetheless. I will give you credit, Christopher; you were very smart. Every earning you got from the Air Force was put into her college account, indirectly, but put there all the same. More recently, in the past two years, I saw that your payments from S.T.A.R.S. were getting put in there, too. She has more than enough money to go to college now, so I thought to myself, _‘Why does he keep depositing money when she’s all set?’_ Well, I figured it out.” 

“Please, enlighten me.” He sneered, his heart pounding wildly. 

“You feel guilty for leaving her. You left to provide for her, but you left her alone all the same. She needed you, and you were gone. You don’t ever want her to suffer like you once did, you didn’t ever want her to know what it was like to struggle for money or for the simplest things. You still provide for her even though you don’t have to because you’re feeling guilty always. Does she even know you’re still doing such a thing?” 

Chris inevitably softened, closing his eyes tightly. “No. She thinks I stopped.”

“You are putting yourself through a hard time with money simply for Claire’s sake. What if . . . all that money was to disappear?” Her voice dropped several octaves, and Chris froze. “If _both_ of your accounts were frozen, and your money assumed back by the government as compensation for the fraud?” 

He was speechless. He could beg, oh he could _beg_ , but he wasn’t that type of person.

“Poor, poor Claire, getting caught up in something that she barely understands. It would be a shame if your years of protecting her went to waste.”

“Are you _threatening me_?” His voice was seething with poorly contained rage.

“I don’t know, Christopher,” she met his gaze evenly. “Am I?” 

For a long moment, they stared each other down. It was a rough moment. Chris was poised to strike if she so said another word against his sister, and she was poised to fight him with her words and crush him back down to the place that he belonged. A dulled sense of horror settled in his chest. If he said another word, if he tried to fight back, she’d make him regret it.

Chris bit his tongue, waiting for her next move.

“Have we been clear here?” She asked. “Do we both understand what is happening here?”

 _I do,_ Chris thought bitterly. _You’re forcing my hand by threatening my sister._ He didn’t respond. _Threatening me — threatening Claire — to cover up what happened? A low blow. Truly, a low blow._

“Look into those medications,” the woman directed, changing the subject. “Think about what I said, think about the fact that things didn’t happen how you thought they happened. Think about your sister, Christopher.” 

“Don’t threaten her again.” Chris lashed out, but resumed his silence when the room crackled with tension.

“Don’t _make_ me.” She responded, rising to her feet. “I believe we’re done here, Christopher. Take a second and think about those medications again, think about consistent therapy. Think about the actuality of life, and not what your brain came up with. Don’t let your crazy delusions rule you.” She had the _audacity_ to touch his shoulder, her hand as cold as her heart. “You’re being pulled from work for a few days to reflect upon what has happened in this room. Our eyes are upon you, Christopher.”


	31. sloth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gotta angst

The soothing feeling of familiar fingers running up and down her arm stirred the young girl from her slumber. Slowly, she began to peel her crusty eyes open, murmuring something unintelligible underneath her breath. 

“What was that, Lethallan?” His voice was heavy was sleep and the soothing feeling stopped, putting a frown upon her face. Why did he stop? “Did you say something?” 

“No,” she turned so that she could rest her chin gently upon his chest, looking up at his face with her sharp azure hues. “I didn’t say a thing, Tamlen.” 

Tamlen smiled, such a beautiful sight, and twined their fingers together. He raised their hands, running his lips along her knuckles. Her heart ached at the sight. “Mm. Well, I was thinking.”

“You were? I’m so surprised.” 

“Ah, _Fenedhis_ ,” he cursed, “I almost had forgotten how sharp your tongue can be.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles again. “But, I was being serious; I was thinking about us and our future.” 

Something in the back of her mind pricked. She felt as if she had had this conversation with him before . . . “Oh?” Was all she could manage to say, unable to help the frown that began pulling at her lips.

“We are both going to be hunters, and you want to become Keeper one day. They say we are too young to think of what we want with our futures, but I disagree.” 

“Five - and - ten years isn’t too young to be thinking of what we could be doing to help provide.” She gave his hand a comforting squeeze, and Tamlen took that as a sign to continue.

“As soon as we show the Keeper that we are capable of being responsible, which I presume is going to be pretty damn soon, for there’s a hunt happening tomorrow that I am participating in, we should . . . get married. That way we could start our family, spend a longer amount of time together —”

“You don’t need sweet words to coax me into it, _ma vhenan_.” With her free hand, she reached up, cupping his cheek as lightly as she could and stroking the hard bone underneath. “ _Ar lath, ma vhenan._ So much.” 

Almost as if his hope for their future was restored, Tamlen adjusted himself so that he could touch their lips, murmuring things in elvish between quick kisses. “ _Var lath ver sulendin. Ver sumeil. Ma vhenan, ma vhenan, Lialya._ ” The kisses began to fade, and the girl settled into the crook of his arm again, focusing upon the beating of his heart as she drifted out of consciousness.

* * *

“ _Venavis_ ,” Lialya twisted, stirring uncomfortably. “ _Venavis, venavis_!” Her muscles grew terse and she arched, feeling as if her entire body was on _fire_. Everything hurt. Her blood coursing through her veins hurt, every single muscle hurt, _everything_ in her entire body felt as if it was burning her from the inside out and she wanted to cry out, but the hands on her wrists stopped her from doing such.

“Wake up, Lialya, wake up!” 

The shaking of her arms made her jerk awake, pupils dilating immediately as her eyes snapped open. A blurry face swam in her field of vision and she blinked rapidly, not realizing she was holding her breath until she shakily exhaled. Blearily, she looked down to see Tamlen was holding her wrists, and her brows began to knit in confusion. “What . . . ?”

“I was afraid you were going to hurt yourself. You must have been having a nightmare, Lialya, you were crying out and thrashing. What were you dreaming of?” Tamlen’s own brows were knitted, lower lip sticking out in concern. 

“I . . .” The remnants of her dream began to come back to her. “I had a dream that you were dead,” Lialya blurted, worming her wrists out from his grasp and wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. The force of her throwing herself into his arms so quickly managed to upset Tamlen’s balance slightly, but his arms automatically encircled around her slight body, holding her tightly. “You had died because we found out information from these _shemlen’s_ that there was a _cave_ in our territory and we went to investigate it but there were walking corpses in there and there was this demon creature that attacked us — and you went up to this mirror, and when you touched it you started speaking nonsense and then something horrific happened. We were both infected and I blacked out and when I woke back up I was back in the camp —” Lialya broke off with a sob. 

“Shh,” Tamlen whispered, stroking her tri - colored hair soothingly. “I’m here now, I’m not dead.” 

“I woke up in camp _without_ you and there was this Grey Warden there telling us about the Blight, and that I had fallen ill with the Taint. I went back with Fenarel and Merrill to the cave to see if you were there, to . . . recover your body . . . and we couldn’t find you. The Grey Warden said that you were dead, that it would be far better if you were just _dead_ , and that we should let you go. But I couldn’t accept that. I can’t accept what came after, too.” She tucked her face into his shoulder, her voice becoming muffled. “The Warden took me away from camp, saying that he was going to make me one of them, but things went _wrong_ so quickly. He died, and it was just this one Warden and I, the daughter of _Asha’bellanar_ , an assassin, a Qunari, a bard, and two of the _Durgen’len_. I was leading them, and you were gone, and I was finding myself falling for this _s_ _hem_. But you were _gone_ and I couldn’t bear. I couldn’t bear without you.” 

Somehow, after her tears subsided and she grew calmer, she found herself in Tamlen’s lap again and beginning to drift back to sleep. His fingers were carding through her hair, smoothing out the knots that her thrashing had created. The sun was still shining, no clouds showing in the beautiful blue sky. As she fell back asleep, she vaguely remembered thinking that it was weird, that the time wasn’t passing here. But those thoughts were lost when Tamlen began to hum, causing her to relax completely and slip away.

* * *

Waking up for the third time, Lialya’s body felt battered. She felt as if she had been fighting all day, and when she tried to pick herself up from Tamlen’s lap, her body felt lethargic and heavy. Squeezing her eyes shut, she scrunched up her face, mentally counting to ten in Elvish before forcing her eyes open.

She never really appreciated the scenery before. 

Both she and Tamlen were resting upon a grassy hill, the trees of the Brecilian Forest fanning out behind them. Before them was a sheer cliff face, a salty sea lapping at the sandy shore below. Sometimes, whenever their clan came back to this area of the Forest, she and Tamlen used to swim and compete with her twin brother Lehel, Merrill, and Fenarel to see who was the best. Lialya would often get cold and exit around the same time as Merrill, and then the boys would have a standoff until Fenarel would give up, followed by Tamlen, leaving her brother the Champion of the Sea. 

With the way the sun was shining, she could see the assortment of colors along the waves. Bright blues and soft greens, coupled with a deep indigo. The waves glimmered like the most beautiful gems, drawing her attention far away from the fact that something was incredibly wrong. A childish sense of wonder rose in her, and she wanted to pick her lethargic body up from Tamlen’s lap and go splashing through the shallowest parts. It was too cool here for a swim, but she longed to dip her toes in, to splash at Tamlen and get him all riled up.

Clenching her jaw, Lialya exhaled deeply, and Tamlen moved to touch his hand to her cheek. His calloused thumb began stroking her clenched tendon, and she involuntarily relaxed, letting his gentle touches keep her in a compliant state. 

“I could stay here with you forever.” She murmured, her eyes growing heavy again.

“We don’t ever have to leave.” Tamlen’s voice is soft, so familiar and so reassuring. She loved him.

“Good. I love you so much more than I could ever put into words.” 

“Mmm . . .” His hand moved from her face to cup around her neck, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into her terse tendons. She exhaled, long and slow, enjoying the wondrous warm rays and the stirring breeze. They were alone here, very alone, which was odd. Very odd. Shouldn’t there be others coming to look for them? Lehel, at the very least? 

She must have tensed again, because Tamlen was responding, making a soothing noise in the back of his throat and rubbing her wound muscles. It was enough to prick at her exhaustion again, threatening to drag her back down into the abyss of unconsciousness. 

Wait . . . 

Why was he working so hard to keep her relaxed and asleep? 

Fighting her lethargy and her lack of strength, Lialya pulled herself away from Tamlen, aware that it was like pulling her skin off of her sinewy tendons. She hated being too far from him at all times. After the dream she had had before . . . 

_Was_ it a dream? 

Suddenly dazed and feeling dizzy, Lialya sat up on her own, everything around her spinning. Fighting back a gasp, she squeezed her eyes shut, exhaling sharply. 

“Are you okay?” Tamlen asked, concerned.

“I don’t know,” Lialya whispered in response, forcing her eyes open to look down at her hands. 

Before, her hands were slender and soft. Despite working with bows and weapons her entire life, salves and certain thick liquids kept her skin smooth and lacking in callouses. Her fingers and palms were a light shade of tan, long and slender, looking delicate but were absolutely deadly due to how well she knew her way around weapons and people. 

Now, they were dirty and rough. Her skin was terse and stretched tight over her bones, calloused covering the insides of her fingers and along her palms. Her skin had a strange tinge to it, something dark seeming to lurk within her blood, making her seem impure and tainted from the inside out. She could see a thick blackness akin to sludge coursing through her veins, the presumable cause to the sickly shadow to her skin. 

“What —” Lialya’s hands began to tremble. “What’s going on?” 

“What are you talking about?” Tamlen looked at her incredulously. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” 

“I never _said_ there was something wrong with me.” Impatience made her snap. She felt older, more exhausted, battered and broken by something that she didn’t remember. She felt as if she had fought through one of the toughest wars, but she hadn’t moved from this spot. 

Suddenly suspicious, Lialya put some distance between herself and Tamlen. He tried to follow, but she put her hand up in the space between their chests, and he stopped trying to come closer. He looked at her, hurt, but she steeled herself off to him. Something was off. All of her senses screamed at her to run. 

“Why are you fighting this?” Tamlen's voice was reassuring and soft, different from before. “Why don’t you come lay back down, we can go back to sleep, and then go hunt.” 

“You’re not real . . .” Lialya accused, though her voice was lacking any real weight to it. “You can’t be. My dream wasn’t just a dream — it was _real_.” 

“How could it have been real, Lialya?” Tamlen sounded frustrated. “There is _no way_ a Blight could return. Besides, I’d never leave you. I’d _never_ touch a mirror that would get me killed, and you sick.” 

She scrambles to her feet unsteadily, distress gripping her in cold claws. She felt like her whole world was crashing down. “No, no . . . You told me you’d be fine when you touched it, Tamlen. You said that nothing would happen to you, _that’s_ why you did it. But things happened, and I was thrown into something I can never fully understand.” The more she spoke about it, the more her memories began to return.

Meeting Alistair, the fall of Ostagar, Flemeth telling them to let Morrigan join them, them traveling through Lothering together and meeting Leliana and Sten, Zevran attacking them and her allowing him to join their little ragtag team, Loghain sending more soldiers to dispatch them, deciding to head to the Circle of Magi — 

Lialya froze. The Circle . . . No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t remember just _how_ far they had gotten into the Tower. Keeping here eyes on Tamlen to ensure that he was going to stay where he was, she inhaled sharply, the memory of the Sloth Demon hitting her _hard_. It’s monotonous voice instilling a sense of weakness within her, making her just want to lay down right there on the floor and sleep. All of them, Zevran, Alistair, Wynne and herself trying to stay awake, but inevitably sinking upon the bloodied and gunky floor, falling into the clutches of something dangerous. 

“You are _not_ real.” She said firmly. “I remember. You’re a delusion, a dream. _Dirth’ena enasalin_.” 

Cautiously, the sloth version of Tamlen rose to his feet, dusting off his breeches with an expressionless look on his face. She wished she had a weapon on her, for she was never able to take Tamlen in close combat. This would prove to be much harder because it was not _her_ Tamlen. “Not quite an Arcane Warrior,” he said quietly, his voice breaching her core. The fresh pain of his loss was hitting her all over again. “Just . . . a figment of your mind. I offer you something that you cannot have in the waking world: _ma vhenan_.” Lialya’s brain flashed with rage at the tender words, but he continued on, oblivious to the anger growing in her expression. “Here, I am alive, aren’t I? Out there . . . there’s war. There’s suffering. I am dead out there. In here, you’re safe with me, you’re _okay_ , there’s no pressure on you.” He reached his hand out to catch her jaw, and Lialya pulled away, determined to keep distance between them. His touch would cloud her mind. There could be no physical contact.

Sloth Tamlen looked hurt, but Lialya curled her lip at him. “Do you think I’d be so stupid as to stay here with you? I’d die.” She could already feel a change taking place within her; her words were different, she wasn’t speaking frequently in their lost language, she was harsher, brasher, callous. 

“You’re six - and - ten years,” he reminded her, “a child in the midst of a war that you do not understand. You’re parading around in a suit of armor that’s too heavy for you, pretending like their insults and their barbs don’t hurt you, but you still find yourself awake at night wondering just how different things would be if you were _human_.” He said the word bitterly. “Human. That’s what you’ve wanted since you’ve left, right? Since you’ve found yourself mixing with them? You want to blend in. You want to be like them. You want to _be_ one of them.” 

“Stop it —” Lialya pleaded, but the Sloth Tamlen swept on like she wasn’t there. 

“You’ve become too much of a different person to be recognizable anymore. Lialya Mahariel, who is that? Not the _Warden_ standing before me. You were a hunter, you were going to marry me, we were going to have kids and you were going to become the next Keeper. We were going to be a _family_ , and yet, here you are, in a relationship with a _shem_ and rejecting everything that you knew. _What_ are you doing, Li? _Why_ do you continue to fight? They are not your people, and they will never be your people. You belong _here_ , where you grew up, not in a place where you _pretend_ to be something you are not.” 

“Because I know it’s for the greater good. I know that if I stay here, then I’m going to die, along with my friends.” 

“They’re not your friends.” 

“They _are_ my friends, _ma serannas_.” She snapped. The Sloth Demon was playing with her, she knew. It was trying to weaken her again so that she may succumb to it’s influence. There was no way she was letting that happen again! There was a whole world she needed to return to, still, but she didn’t know _how_ to get back to it. 

“What about your brother? Merrill? Fenarel? Aren’t _they_ your friends?” 

“They are, but, they’re not here. They’re at home.” 

“You have no right to call that place your home any longer. You gave that right up when you began wishing you had no trace of Elven blood in your veins.” The blow was low, and Lialya flushed with shame. It was true. She had often desired that she was different, that she was not . . . different. Dirty. Wild. Feral. Maybe then things would be easier if her ears were rounded rather than pointed, if her face was softer rather than sharp, if her eyes were a simple color rather than piercing. Would people respect her if she had looked like them? If she had worn the same face as they did? 

“I am still an Elf,” she said lowly, avoiding his gaze. “I am still a Dalish. I am still _Mahariel_ , and yes, I am a Warden. I do fantasize about being different; I do wonder if things would be different if was . . . like them. Sometimes I wish I was like them! But, through and through, I am Lialya Mahariel, six - and - ten years of age, twin to Lehel. I am not the same girl that you once knew.” She took steps forward, cupping his jaw and brushing her lips against his. She hated this, she hated how her entire body melted and how he grasped her hips like they were the only real thing in the world, thumbs rubbing the sensitive spots above her sharp bones that only he knew were there. The kiss quickly grew desperate, and her hands dropped from his jaw to map out across his lean, broad chest, familiar underneath her fingers.

He pulled away, brushing his lips along her cheek and her jaw, pressing soft kisses along her defined features. “You can have this,” he whispered, his grip becoming like vice. “You can have me, you can have this place, you can have _home_.” She closed her eyes, drinking in the feelings that filled her. “Or you can have that.” 

Lialya opened her eyes, looking just past Tamlen, her heart breaking when she saw what he wanted her to see. It was a memory, clearly perceived from an outsiders point of view. She was sitting in tall grasses, her legs splayed out, hands braced behind her as her head remained tipped back. Her throat was exposed, eyes closed, lips parted as the rays sank into her skin. In her lap, Alistair had his head resting upon her narrow thighs, looking up at her with admiration in his eyes. She had been able to feel his gaze upon her, watching her, and she had felt comforted by it.

She watched as she opened her eyes, smiling down at him, folding herself over so that she could press a kiss to his forehead. Her fingers were carding through his short, tufted hair, brushing her lips across every feature except for his lips. As if it were a game, he tried to capture her lips with his own, but she had always been quick to pull back, quick to grin at him and say something along the lines of: _“patience will be your virtue.”_ She still remembered the way he frowned at her, looking annoyed, but eager for more. 

Distantly, Lialya could hear Alistair’s laugh, and she closed her eyes tightly. 

That was the real world. This was not. Not wanting this Tamlen to get suspicious, she connected their lips together, one hand reaching behind her back to where she knew she had a dagger stashed. It had made itself known to her only a few seconds prior, the red steel burning against her skin, reminding her that it was there, ready for her to grab and wield. 

“I have to choose the real world, _ma vhenan._ I cannot stay here with you.” Her voice was trembling, but she knew what she had to do. There was no other choice. She forced herself to become cold towards him, plunging the dagger straight into his sternum. 

Tamlen’s gaze was filled with confusion, even a little hurt, as he stared down at her. Blood trickled out from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes began to roll back into his head. They were beginning to turn bloodshot, and all color that he had in his body began to fade. He turned stark white in her grasp, the color of picked - over bones, and then he shattered. As if he had never existed, the remains of what he was blew away in the wind, dancing along the currents until it looked like he was sprinkled amongst the waves. 

_Goodbye, ma vehenan._ She thought, watching as a glowing stand began to come into existence. 


	32. mages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i started to play awakening again & anders just makes me so sad. 
> 
> lil short thing while i actually work on a real, long, resident evil fanfic as opposed to a oneshot. 
> 
> heres to hoping motivation lasts.

“Maybe it is my hobby,” she said, a sad smile pulling up the corners of her lips. “Making mages that are fleeing from the law my closest friends, only to lose them to some obscure reason and never be able to find them again. Never share another word with them again.”

“Maybe it is,” Alistair agreed, but he knew better.

Despite those flippant words, those losses were taken to heart. She had worked for months to get Morrigan to approve of her; it had taken a lot out of her, and Alistair had been there by her side every step of the way. He had seen the way the two eventually became as close as they humanly possible with Morrigan, of all _people_ , and then the woman had taken herself and her unborn child and had disappeared. It had cut at the Commander deeply, but she had let the woman go without a fight. After all, it was in their agreement. Lialya never broke agreements.

She wouldn’t admit it, not to him or anyone, but he knew that she was waiting for her to return. A letter, a small sign that she was alive still — or that she at least didn’t forget her friends.

Though he hadn’t seen her friendship with Anders blossom, he knew that she had become close with him as well. After saving his life and keeping him in the Wardens, his loss had hit her just as heavily. Heavier than Morrigan’s because he had never said goodbye, never given her the sense of closure. For some reason, some pathetic reason, it kept happening.

Again, and again, and _again_.

“Next mage I meet, I’m not getting close to.” She vowed. Her voice was strong, but those eyes of hers betrayed her. They both knew she would.

“I concur. Who needs mage friends anyway when you’ve got dogs?”


	33. maero.

The rage that filled Léon was monumental and ice cold.

Fingerless glove - clad hands were tight upon the steering wheel, knuckles turning white from the pressure. He couldn’t feel anything except for _rage_. Pure rage that he couldn’t describe as hot; it was icy and cold, filling him entirely, making him numb to outside influence.

Fucking _Maero_. How _dare_ he take a rookie such as Carlos and put him through hell? In response to the thought, his foot pressed down further upon the pedal, upper lip curling over his teeth. Taking Carlos for a ride . . .

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Léon struck the wheel with a closed fist, yelling wordlessly. No, it wasn’t Maero that did this. It was him. It was Léon. The _Boss_ who had no fucking control over his actions and got everyone he cared about killed.

Oh, he had no doubts that this was going to lead to another unfortunate death. Another untimely killing. Because he couldn’t keep himself from acting out and taking revenge. Because he couldn’t control himself. Because he was too irrational, too quick to blow his fuse. Why did he have to do this? Why did he have to _fuck_ with Maero, and bring this down upon someone who doesn’t even deserve it?

What did he do, what did he _do_? Carlos might not even be alive at this point, and if he did find them, how did he get the truck to stop? This was a fucking mess.

Where was Gat when you needed him?

Sharp, off - green hues caught sight of one of Maero’s trucks. It took no thought process to ram his bender against one of the back tires, his heart twisting when he saw Carlos being _dragged_ behind. There was nothing that they could do for him now. He was a lost cause.

That didn’t stop Léon from ripping himself out of the cab of the truck, pulling his rifle off the passenger seat and stalking over to the currently stalled truck. Automatically, rage being his only guidance, he raised the gun and fired skillfully into the opposite cab; watching as a bullet caught the driver in the skull, and another caught the passenger in the shoulder.

Blood splattered the windshield. Throwing his gun to the ground, Léon hurried forth to Carlos, ignoring the resounding shot that fired off behind him. He didn’t care.

It was almost poetic as the rain began to fall, and the sky darkened, seeming to mourn the young gangster. He was still alive, by some sick deity, he was being kept alive and when he made eye contact Léon wanted to _sob_. He was a wreck, and the only thing that could save him now was one final meal.

”I’m sorry, _niño_.” His hand reached back to the waistband of his jeans, fingers brushing against the grip of his glock.

“I’m so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i also had this stashed somewhere & i found it again. 
> 
> rip carlos.


	34. jellybeans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried 2 write something funny but i am not funny i am filled with sads 
> 
> what counts is that i tried right ? 
> 
> also i didnt read this over so sorry if there are typos !! i'll do that later

Leon and Chris were staring at each other, eyebrows knitted together, mouths pinched, neither breaking eye contact.

“Okay, guys,” Claire grinned, holding the spinner in her hand. “Blue — toothpaste, or berry blue.” She held the bowl of mixed jellybeans out to both boys, who both shared a wry look before fishing the right color out.

“Cheers,” Leon mumbled, throwing the jellybean in his mouth. Chris followed suit, and both of them remained hesitant until they began chewing.

In the background, Ada snorted, rolling her eyes at the expression Leon was making. His eyes were scrunched up, and his mouth was pinched to the point of his lips disappearing.

“Toothpaste?” Ada asked in her smooth voice, and Leon nodded.

“ _Ha_ ,” Chris snorted. “I’ve got blue berry.”

“Berry blue,” Sherry corrected from the back, and Chris shot her a dark look.

“Same difference. What’s the score at?” Chris sat up straighter as Leon gagged, reaching for a bottle of water to wash his mouth out.

“Nine for Covergirl, and eleven for the Jarhead. Got to get to fifteen to win.” Jake was lounging against the counter, whiteboard in hand. Idly, he updated the scores, not looking as Sherry came to lean beside him.

“Ready for another spin?” Claire asked, waving the board in their direction. “We can do a winner takes all situation.”

Leon looked over at Chris, and there was something in his eyes that made Chris’ stomach drop. “Why not?” Leon challenged.

“I have something that can make you shove that challenging tone up your ass,” Chris reached for the bowl, yanking it towards him. He could feel Leon’s wary gaze on him as he plunged his hand in, ruffling around before pulling out a handful of jellybeans. Without breaking eye contact with Leon, he shoved the handful in his mouth.

“Jesus, Chris,” Claire’s eyebrows were arched and she was leaning away. “Are you gonna puke?”

Chris, with his mouth filled and chewing in a grotesque manner, nodded. He was squinting slightly, and every moment or so he’d shudder, but after a minute he finally swallowed. Roughly, a little painfully, but he swallowed.

“Dude, that was fucking _gross_.” Jake was gagging. “I don’t know how you can do that, man.”

Leon put his hands up and got out of his chair. “I quit. There is _no way_ I’m doing that.”

“That means I win?” Chris’ voice was strained, and his lips were tight, but he grinned in satisfaction nonetheless. “I _win_!”

“Yes, yes you win.” Ada’s voice was cool. “If you vomit, you will be cleaning it up.”

* * *

“Do you think I should go in there?” Claire’s voice was muffled, and Chris could hear her clothes shifting against the door. In response, he groaned, hearing Claire laugh.

“You shouldn’t have tried to win that way.” Leon joked through the door.

Chris heaved again, the bile burning the inside of his throat and mouth. He’d been at it for fifteen minutes now; why wasn’t he done?

“Next time don’t try and be so macho!” Jake sounded as if he was _thoroughly_ enjoying this. If Chris had any energy left, he’d be looking to punch the asshole in the mouth.

“At least I won,” was all he could manage.

“Yeah, but was it worth it?” Sherry this time. “I don’t think vomiting is a fair reward for winning.”

“I’m glad I didn’t win if this is what I’d have been going through.”

 _Pile it on, guys._ Chris thought to himself. _I still won._


	35. faith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i found an old drabble hel o

“Is he breathing?” Silmia breathed, hardly daring to touch Errion’s arm. “Please tell me he didn’t slip away in his sleep.” 

“He still breathes.” Calna confirmed, but her hands did not stray from his. His cold, clammy hand was held between both of hers, almost as if her touch alone could bring him back from the brink of death. “I pray that he doesn’t get taken in his sleep. He does not deserve to suffer any.” 

“I do not know what would be best for him, Your Majesty. Slipping away now, or slipping away later once infection enters his blood. I pray for neither.” Silmia took a seat on Errion’s other side, her bright gaze glimmering with sadness. “My son should not grow up without his father.” 

Calna looked away. “No child should have to grow up without their parents.” She murmured, a strange expression crossing her face. “I understand that you came as soon as the letter reached you, yes?”

“Of course. I would never leave my husband to suffer in good faith. He may not love me in the ways I desire, but we are close.” Both women were aware of where Errion’s true interests were currently tied up. “Alas, how bad would it look if the wife of the Commander was not here for when he passed?”

“He won’t pass.” Calna’s voice was quiet, but trembling with determination. “He is a Thilinaine, blessed with strength. This is nothing.” Her thumb ran soothingly across the back of his hand, watching as his fingers twitched in response. “It is a lonely thing, to be the last Thilinaine in the world. For selfish reasons, I wish him to stay.” 

Silmia laughed. A strangled, tight sound, but a laugh nonetheless. “To be alone in the world is at terrible fate, Your Grace. I have true faith that he will survive.” 

“Where is he?” Another female voice shouted, the pathetic excuse for a door to the tent whipping open. There stood their leader of this rebellion, Fara, gaze wild. “Is that —”

Calna smiled sadly. “Yes. He took a mace to the chest, shattered through his armor. He protected my son.” Errion, always the sacrificial type. It was going to be the death of him. “There’s little they can do for him now.” 

Fara stared blankly at her. ‘Mer like Fara, the Bosmer people, didn’t seem to understand death as well as the Dunmer or the Altmer did. They were a private people, just as the Altmer were, but believed in such strange things that you could not get involved unless you were fully dedicated. 

“I’m going to go check in on my son.” Silmia rose to her feet, gathering her skirts up underneath her and leaving the tent. Fara took her seat, expression grim. 

“It’s a bit too early to tell if he will make it.” Calna offered, but Fara ignored her. “Have faith, Little Dragon. My dear brother is a fighter.”


	36. the next life.

“Hyuga!” Mysaki cried, blinking the mixture of tears and rain out of her eyes. It had taken her too long to be able to find him. Dawn was swiftly approaching. “I won’t let Yoshitsune execute you at dawn. I _won’t_.” Her thin, delicate fingers wrapped around the iron bars, yanking on them fruitlessly. She didn’t care that Hyuga had betrayed the wondrous, kind Yoshitsune; she didn’t care! She loved Hyuga with all of her heart, and she, too, would betray Yoshitsune to ensure his survival.

“It’s no use,” Hyuga looked at her with dull silver eyes. His voice was no more than a mere rasp. “Yoshitsune has made up his mind, and we have to go along with it. I made the mistake, and now I must pay for it. You have to understand that, Mysaki.”

“I can’t!” The words rip from her throat fiercely. “I _won’t_!” Her bottom lip trembled, revealing the depth of her distress. Once more she yanked upon the bars, the buildup of rust biting into her soft palms. “I can’t let you die, not after everything you’ve done for me.”

Hyuga’s callused and familiar hands wrapped around hers, providing her with a reassuring pressure. “It’s _okay_. I’ve accepted my fate.” For once, his words weren’t barbed. They didn’t have a bite. Instead, they were tender. Soft. He had given up.

“What about _me_?” Boldly, Mysaki spat the question out, watching as Hyuga’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Do you think that I want you to die?”

“You’ll be better off without me.” 

“You don’t know that!” She couldn’t stop her voice from rising. “I _love you_! Damnit, this isn’t right. It’s not right.” Her hands were shaking. “Hyuga, please, help me fight for you.”

Hyuga shook his head. “No, Mysaki. You’re a lady, and you must carry on your family’s legacy. This is the right thing to do. I must atone for my crimes.”

“If you die,” Mysaki said quietly, “then I will die with you. I will not leave you here to die alone.” Once more she yanked upon the bars, throwing her body into it, trying her hardest to pull it open.

“You can’t!” Life sparked into his eyes. “You _must_ live, Mysaki. I won’t let you.”

“And I won’t let you die alone, so it seems as if we’re at an impasse.” Mysaki tucked her soaking wet hair out of the way, unable to fight back a shiver. “Yoshitsune will have to execute me along with you. I won’t accept anything else.”

“Stubborn dame!” Hyuga spat at her. He didn’t care about his own life, but he cared about hers. He wanted so badly for her to live, but Mysaki would not live without him. She had made her choice long ago.

“You can’t talk me out of it. You have become my life since I fell in love with you, Hyuga. If you die, I will die with you, and then we can be reborn together into another life where the odds are not against us.” She reached her slender hand through the bars, touching her damp palm against his cheek. He brought up his own hand to wrap around hers, silver eyes gleaming with tenderness.

“I can see that you’re not going to change your mind.” He whispered. “In the next life, then. You and I, and maybe the circumstances will be more in our favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so uncreative with names lmao


End file.
